UBRARY 

University  of  California 

IRVINE 


POPULAR 

BY 

'BRICK   POMEROY." 


I.  —  SENSE. 
(  H. — NONSENSE. 
HI. — SATURDAY  NiaHTS. 

IT.  — GOLD-DUST. 

V.  —BRICK  DUST. 


"The  versatility  of  genius  exhibited  hy  this  author  has  won  for 

him  a  world-wide  reputation  as  a  facetious  and  a  strong 

writer.      One    moment   replete  with  the  most 

touching  pathos,  and  the  next  fall  of 

fun,  frolic,  and  sarcasm." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume,  at  §1.50,  and  sent  by  mail, 
free  of  postage,  on  receipt  of  price, 


G.  W.  CARL.ETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


"  Please,  air,  buy  a  bouquet  1'or  your  buttonhole  ?  " — See  i>uge  20. 


GOLD-DUST : 


FOR     THE 


BEAUTIFYING    OF    LIVES    AND     HOMES. 


M.    M.     POMEROY, 

["BRICK"  POMEROY,] 
AUTHOR  OF  "  SENSE,"  "  NONSENSE,"  "  SATURDAY  NIGHTS," 

"  BRICK-DUST,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

Gr.  "W.   CAUI-jETON"    &    CO.,    3?ut>lish.ers. 
LONDON:    S.   LOW,    SON   &  CO. 

MDCCCLXXI. 


PS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

G.    W.    CARLETON    &   CO., 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


To  THOSE  who  are  struggling  to  rise  in  the  world  —  to  those  who 
have  hours  of  sadness,  and  whose  hearts  at  times  are  grief-laden  — 
to  those  who  would  be  happy  and  who  would  add  to  tho  happiness 
of  others  —  to  those  who  love  each  other,  and  who  can  say  it  is 
good  to  live  for  the  good  we  can  do  through 

OUR    FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS  VOLUME  of  good  intent  is  earnestly  and  respectfully  dedicated 
by  THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 

I.— What  an  Artist  does 13 

II.— Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God 25 

III.— Only  Thinking 36 

IV.— What  will  We  doOver  There? 48 

V — A  Life  Lost 58 

VI.— To  a  poor  Little  Boy 72 

VII.— The  Beauty  of  Life 82 

VIII.— Only  a  Widow .' ....    90 

IX.— Patient  in  Suffering 98 

X.— Why  She  Died Ill 

XI.— The  Beauty  of  Better  Work 122 

XII.— The  Light  on  the  Shore 129 

XIII.— Back  to  her  Home .' 140 

XIV.— Dying  as  We  Write 151 

XV.— Home,  and  Why  it  is  Home 162 

XVI.— Working  and  Waiting 170 

XVII.— Trying  to  be  Kich 178 

XVIII.— Indeed  a  Golden  Keward 189 

XIX.— Merely  Opening  a  Door 199 

XX.— New- Year  Presents  for  Little  Ones 208 

XXI.— About  a  Bright-eyed  Baby 217 

XXII.— Thinking  of  the  Past  and  the  Future 228 

XXIII.— Not  so  Lonely  after  all 238 

XXIV.— Put  them  Away 249 

XXV. — How  some  Poor  People  are  very  Kich 256 

XXVI.— The  Loved  and  the  Absent ., 267 


PREFACE. 


TWENTY  years  ago ! 

Almost  broken-hearted,  — bleeding  from  excessive  punish 
ment,  a  poverty-clutched  boy  lay  under  a  fence  near  the 
road-side.  The  hot  summer  sun  beat  down  upon  the  lacer 
ated  back  of  the  youth  as  he  slept,  overcome  with  pain,  sor 
row,  despair,  and  dread  of  the  future.  When  he  crept  away 
to  this  hiding-place,  to  weep  and  suffer  —  to  wonder  why  ho 
too,  could  not  have  friends  —  to  think  of  a  mother  in  heaven, 
and  to  wish  he  might  find  with  her  a  home  and  rest  Over 
There,  the  future  seemed  dark,  dismal,  and  treacherous, 
without  one  ray  of  light  to  guide  through  the  wilderness  sep 
arating  the  shores  of  birth  and  death. 

The  poor  boy  dreamed.  A  sweet,  peaceful  dream.  The 
sun  sank  slowly  behind  the  hills  ;  the  evening  breeze  came 
with  cooling  breath,  and  there,  resting  on  the  growing  grass, 
with  head  pillowed  on  one  arm,  this  was  his  vision. 

The  dark  clouds  seemed  to  roll  away,  leaving  a  golden 
reach  of  atmosphere  far  extending  toward  a  distant  city  in 
the  Heavens.  From  the  crowd  which  seemed  to  hover  over 
this  city  there  came  one  with  golden  hair,  radiant  face,  and 
look  of  love,  seeming  to  float  as  if  by  the  power  of  the  will 
toward  where  slept  the  bleeding  sufferer. 

IX 


x  Preface. 

Gently  to  his  side  she  came  —  sweet  kisses  on  his  aching 
brow  impressed  —  with  love-light  soothing  hand,  the  tears 
she  wiped  from  his  eyes,  and  then  whispered  such  words  of 
love  and  hope  that  memory  holds  them  ever  as  sacred  keys 
to  Eternal  joys. 

These  were  her  words  :  — 

"Over  There  is  rest!  Be  patient,  and  suffer  if  need  be 
while  here,  but  trust  in  me.  I  went  but  to  prepare  for  your 
coming.  Do  not  fear  or  faint.  I  will  watch  over,  protect, 
and  guide  your  feet  safely  amidst  dangers,  you  little  can 
imagine,  even  with  the  vision  of  dreams.  Look  upward. 
Look  Over  There,  where  suffering  and  anguish  are  unknown. 
Trust  in  me ;  have  faith  and  I  will  ever  come  when  you  are 
in  danger  or  trouble.  Fear  not.  I  never  will  be  long 
away.  The  clouds  may  gather  black  and  thick  between  us, 
but  I  will  come  on  wings  of  light,  never  leaving  you  long 
alone,  as  I  used  to  come  to  the  cradle  wherein  you  slept,  but 
not  in  pain  as  now." 

Then  she  went  away,  and  the  poor  boy  with  a  sigh  stretched 
out  his  hands,  but  she  had-gone.  Then  came  a  friend,  walk 
ing  by  chance  that  way.  With  words  of  cheer,  touch  of 
sympathy,  and  tender  care,  our  wounds  were  dressed,  and 
kindly  sentences  listened  to.  Thus  spake  that  friend  :  — 

"Never  mind  for  the  past,  its  smarts  and  bruises.  The 
future  is  as  bright  to-day  as  ever!  Take  courage.  Be 
brave.  Never  despair,  but  with  earnest  endeavor  live  for  the 
good  of  to-day  and  the  joys  of  to-morrow.  As  others  have 
been-cruel  to  you,  be  not  so  to  them.  It  is  noble  to  forgive, 
and  thus  comes  strength.  Do  not  thank  me,  but  help  others 
when  they  are  in  trouble,  and  life  will  have  more  joys  for 


Preface.  xi 

you  with  each  coming  year.  Do  not  thank  me,  but  help 
others  as  you  have  been  helped." 

The  poor  boy  arose  to  walk  in  a  new  light.  Kind  words 
lifted  him  to  renewed  life.  The  good  seed  sown  by  the  way 
side  took  root.  Our  friend  who  thus  spake  has  passed  away, 
but  oft,  and  oft,  and  oft  the  gentle  spirit  who  came  with  such 
sweet  gifts  to  flavor  our  dreams  has  smiled  on  us  a 
thousand  times  since,  as  she  ever  docs  when  we  stop  to  talk 
with  those  who  are  to  be  found  by  the  roadside,  suffering, 
discouraged,  but  needing  only  kind  words  from  a  loving 
heart  to  waken  them  to  new  life  and  that  courage  which  en 
ables  those  who  strive  aright  to  walk  toward  the  Eternal 
Gardens  bearing  their  sheaves  with  them. 

God  give  us  all  strength  to  help  others  —  and  this  is  our 
work.  M.  M.  P. 


GOLD  DUST. 

CHAPTER    I. 

WHAT   AN   ARTIST    DOES. 

PAINTER    outlines  a  picture.     He 
prepares  his  canvas,  then  little  by  lit- 

•• 

tie  develops  the  life  he  is  calling  into 
existence.  Here  a  touch  —  bold,  heavy,  earnest ; 
there,  a  delicate  tracing  so  fine  and  perfect  one 
would  hardly  know  his  pencil  or  brush  had 
ever  touched  the  canvas.  And  so,  little  by  lit 
tle,  day  after  day,  he  studies,  watching  the 
effects  of  his  labor,  ever  striving  to  reach  into 
the  ideal,  which  is  the  struggle  of  the  soul  after 
the  perfection  sometime  to  be  its  own.  See 

13 


14  What  an  Artist  Does. 

with  what  care,  what  pains,  what  delicacy  of 
touch  he  lifts  his  dream  to  life.  If  it  be  a  form, 
he  makes  the  drapery,  the  face,  the  features, 
the  very  look  —  the  thought  —  till  at  last  his 
work  is  finished. 

Then  see  how  he  cares  for  it,  preserving  it 
ever.  He  gives  it  light  or  shade  —  he  gives  it 
a  frame  and  a  place  in  his  studio,  where  its 
beauties  are  ever  before  him,  to  please,  to  hap- 
pify,  to  suggest,  to  build  him  up  in  the  glori 
ous  existence  which  is  his. 

A  bold,  dashing  lover  wooes  and  wins.  He 
talks,  looks,  acts  love.  lie  is  at  work  on  the 
heart  of  a  woman  —  dearest  of  all  pictures  ! 
He  touches  and  colors  by  kind  words  —  by 
smiles,  by  little  attentions  —  by  those  little 
heaven-born  endeavors  which  make  woman  to 
worship  man,  and  man  worthy  the  adoration  of 
the  pure,  trusting,  beautiful,  loving,  and  virtu 
ous.  He  wins  by  his  boldness  —  his  delicacy 
—  his  power  to  create  new  sympathies. 


What  an  Artist  Does.  15 


The  painter  finishes  his  picture.  He  throws 
it  by  in  disdain.  It  does  not  please  him.  He 
tosses  it  into  a  rubbish-room.  Dirt  and  dust  set 
tle  upon  his  work —  it  becomes  torn,  scratched, 
abused,  till  it  is  no  longer  a  picture,  but  a  daub 
worth  less  than  the  canvas  on  which  it  was 
painted.  The  creator  becomes  the  destroyer, 
and  a  part  of  his  own  life  is  lost ! 

The  man  who  wooes  and  wins,  is  satisfied. 
He  has  won.  The  wife  he  sought  is  his.  No 
more  delicate  touches  —  no  more  soul- warmed 
smiles  —  no  more  of  that  life-giving,  protecting, 
heart-sustaining  eloquence  of  living,  which  so 
beautifies  the'  picture.  He  is  now  an  owner  — 
has  a  right  to  do  as  he  pleases.  He  puts  hi% 
picture,  his  wife,  into  a  cold,  unfurnished  home 
—  he  tosses  the  rubbish  of  innumerable  flirta 
tions  and  adventures  over  her  —  he  pours  the 
slops  of  dissipation  and  debauchery  over  the 


16  What  an  Artist  Does. 

work  he  created  —  the  heart  he  warmed  into 
life,  and  slowly  destroys  by  neglect,  cruelty, 
and  unkindness,  the  love  he  called  forth,  and 
then  blames  the  innocent  picture  for  not  -retain- 
ing  its  beauty,  and  its  ability  to  win  smiles  and 
words  of  approval. 

As  the  skill  of  a  painter  gives  life  to  his 
work,  so  does  kindness  and  careful  love  give 
Heaven  to  united  hearts.  As  each  touch  of 
the  brush  calls  forth  some  new  beauty,  some 
new  expression,  some  charming  result;  so  does 
honest,  noble,  sober,  manly  love  and  devoted 
honesty  of  heart  and  person  beautify  and  spirit 
ualize  united  lives  till  there  is  before  us  a  pic 
ture  so  good,  so  soul-resting,  so  complete  in 
its  God-given  sweetness  that  by  this  effort  to 
^levotionalize  our  lives  we  rise  above  clouds, 
storms,  and  temptations,  and  are  given  power 
such  as  angels  enjoy. 

Thus  are  we  inspired,  ennobled,  strength 
ened,  and  glorified  in  our  natures  by  that  Great 


What  an  Artist  Does.  17 

Power  of  Love  Eternal,  which  rewards  exactly 
in  proportion  to  our  allegiance,  and  made  so 
strong  for  the  good,  that  we  live  for  centuries 
while  the  work  we  have  planned  is  being  done. 

To  preserve  this  picture  the  painter  need  not 
live  in  a  palace  —  no  more  need  the  earnest 
man  who  would  build  himself  into  the  beautiful 
Eternal  by  this  simple  caring  for  himself  and 
his  own.  The  frame  need  not  be  better  than  the 
picture  —  the  home  need  not  be  more  an  object 
of  thought  than  the  loved  one  in  your  keeping. 
We  may  dwell  in  a  hovel  —  may  reside  in  a 
mansion  ;  we  only  truly  live  in  the  heart. 

If  we  surround  ourselves  with  the  good,  the 
pure,  the  loving,  the  virtuous,  the  refined,  the 
truly  suggestive  of  the  beautiful,  we  drink  in 
of  our  surroundings  and  become  day  by  day 
better  and  more  deserving.  Others  cannot 
make  us  good,  but  they  can  help,  and  they  will 
if  we  but  show  that  we  are  deserving. 

But  if  we  do  not  try  to  improve  and  show 


18  What  an  Artist  Does. 

ourselves  worthy  the  good  opinion  of  real 
friends,  how  can  we  expect  them  to  take  an  in 
terest  in  us.  Those  who  sow  little  or  much 
care  not  to  scatter  by  the  wayside  or  on  hills  of 
flint  where  the  seed  will  die  and  bring  no  re 
turn. 

Workingman  —  friend  — -  brother.  All  the 
day  you  have  toiled  in  a  shop,  fashioning  metal 
or  wood  to  certain  designs.  Or  you  have, 
with  aching  back,  fitted  shoes  to  feet  of  horses, 
that  they  might  help  man  support  his  loved 
ones.  Or  you  have  with  rambling  thoughts 
followed  the  plow  or  swung  the  scythe  till  it 
seemed  as  if  the  shade  of  yonder  tree,  the 
draught  from  the  spring;  the  drink  from 
the  kettle,  pail,  or  jug  hidden  under  an  armful 
of  new  mown  hay,  were  enough  to  tempt  you 
to  abandon  labor.  Or  you  have  all  day  in  the 
hot  sun,  with  the  perspiration  streaming  from 
every  pore,  handled  the  ripe  grain  till  the 


What  an  Artist  Does.  19 

beards  on  heads  of  wheat  and  barley  have 
pricked  you  deep  and  sore. 

Perhaps  you  have  been  at  work  in  the 
woods,  beating  the  march  of  civilization  on  the 
lofty  pines  and  hard  beeches,  oak,  and  maples 
—  with  gleaming  axes  to  the  annoying  tenor  of 
stinging  gnats  and  buzzing  flies  —  working  to 
build  you  a  home  and  earn  its  adornment. 
Or  you  may  have  been  all  the  day  working  in  a 
mine  —  or  sitting  in  your  shop  —  or  working  at 
the  case  of  types  —  or  laboring  anywhere  by 
the  day.  No  matter.  You  are  our  Brother. 
"We  are  all  workers  together.  We  are  all 
creators  —  each  doing  our  best.  You  may 
pray  on  your  feet,  on  your  knees,  or  not  at  all, 
for  this  is  your  affair,  not  ours.  But  we  are 
brothers,  and  we  are,  before  God,  your 
friend. 

Come  to  our  room  and  sit  with  us  a  few 
moments.  Stay — 'we  will  come  to  yours  ;  this 
is  better.  Never  mind  the  chair  —  we  will  sit 


20  What  an  Artist  Does. 

here  on  this  stool  —  this  bench  —  this  nail-keg 
upturned  —  this  'rustic  seat,  or  on  that  log. 
It  is  late.  In  a  few  moments  this  week  will 
have  dropped  into  the  silent  well  of  time,  never 
to  be  raised  for  our  inspection  till  it  comes  with 
our  record  for  His  inspection.  Soon  you  must 
sleep.  Perhaps  you  are  sleeping  now.  Then 
we  will  sit  on  the  edge  of  your  bed,  no  matter 
if  it  be  but  a 'blanket  on  the  ground  or  the 
floor. 

This  is  your  home.  It  is  so  much  better 
than  many  have,  we  do  not  wonder  you  love  it. 
The  little  one  or  ones  sleeping  just  there  are 
yours.  In  God's  name,  brother  workingmen, 
do  not  throw  these  beautiful  pictures  you  can 
so  well  finish,  or  certainly  spoil,  into  the 
rubbish-room  of  neglect.  That  woman  so 
tired,  weary,  overworked,  and  underloved  is 
your  wife — your  darling.  All  the  day  long, 
and  far  into  the  night,  has  she  toiled  to  help 
you.  She  is  weary.  We  know  it  by  her 


WJiat  an  Artist  Does.  21 

attitude  in  sleep  —  by  the  way  her  head  is 
thrown  back  —  by  her  heavy  breathing,  for 
thus  do  rest  the  weary  and  the  overworked. 

Look  at  the  picture  before  you  sleep.  Do 
you  wish  her  to  love  you  better  ?  Do  you  wish 
the  little  ones  to  be  nearer  and  more  loving  ? 
Do  you  wish  your  home  to  be  more  beautiful? 
Then  listen,  not  to  us,  but  to  our  good  angel 
who  to-night  so  smiles  on  us,  and  wishes  us  to 
talk  to  you  for  her.  Fill  your  home  with  evi 
dences  of  your  loving  care,  and  it  will  return 
to  you  an  hundred-fold  of  happiness. 

There  is  a  place  for  a  mat,  or  little  piece  of 
carpet.  And  there  is  just  the  place  for  a  few 
shelves  —  a  few  books.  And  over  there  is  a 
nice  place  for  a  little  flower-pot.  And  there 
you  can  hang  a  bird-cage,  or  your  little  ones 
can  train  a  vine. 

You  have  no  money?  O,  yes,  There  is 
money  in  your  muscle  !  There  is  money  in 
your  brain.  There  is  honor  in  your  heart. 


22  What  an  Artist  Does. 

Work.  Do  not  squander  in  dissipation.  Do 
not  throw  your  daily  earnings  from  you  to 
beautify  the  homes  of  others.  You  can  do  a 
little  to-day  —  a  little  to-morrow  —  a  little  con 
tinually.  And  see  how  these  littles  will  accumu 
late  !  Little  acts  of  love  —  little  words  of  kind 
ness  —  little  struggles  to  master  yourself — 
little  articles  bought  from  small  earnings  saved 
will  soon  give  you  a  more  beautiful  home  — 
more  happiness,  more  heart-rest,  more  strength, 
more  honest  pride,  more  manhood,  more  influ 
ence,  more  confidence  in  yourself,  and  more 
and  more  to  you  the  deep,  trusting,  confiding 
love  of  your  home  ones. 

Bear  with  others.  Perhaps  none  of  us  are 
quite  perfect.  It  may  be  that  the  ones  we 
would  find  fault  with,  though  not  quite-  per 
fection,  though  very  far  therefrom,  are  as  good 
as  ourselves,  and  on  the  whole  better  than 
some  others.  It  may  be  you  are  a  painter. 
Then  you  try  often,  touching  and  retouching 


What  an  Artist  Does.  23 

before  the  work  is  perfect.  Perhaps  you  are  a 
grocer,  weighing  out  tea.  Do  you  always  throw 
into  the  scale  the  exact  amount  each  time? 
You  may  be  a  tailor,  or  a  dress-maker.  Do 
you  always  give  a  perfect  fit  without  the  neces 
sity  of  thinking  and  altering  a  little  here  and 
there?  And  if  we  cannot  finish  a  picture  at 
one  stroke  —  strike  the  exact  amount  for  a  cer 
tain  weight,  or  fit  a  garment  the  first  attempt, 
how  much  less  can  we  mold  the  inner  life  or 
outer  life  of  a  person  to  ours,  at  once,  unless 
the  Divine  Builder  has  given  us  His  aid? 

Lead  us  not  into  temptation  —  but  deliver  us 
from  evil.  "VYe  are  all  tempted  even  as  Christ 
was.  We  are  at  best  but  children  who  stum 
ble,  for  ours  is  a  rough  road  —  but  we  can  help 
others ,  who  stumble,  with  us,  to  their  feet,  and 
not  drag  them  down.  Then  we  will  all  be  bet 
ter,  and  our  lives  will  be  to  such  purpose  that 
our  memories  will  not  be  tossed  into  the  rub 
bish-room  of  forgetfuluess,  but  will,  reflecting 


24  What  an  Artist  Does. 

our  lives,  lead  others  to  the  beauties  of  tlie 
Eternal  Home  beyond  the  threshold  of  our  final 
Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WANTED   TO    GO   BACK  TO    GOD. 

fO-NIGHT,  when  we  passed  out  from 
our  private  office  to  call  upon  a  lady 
friend,  a  pale-faced  little  girl  at  the 
foot  of  the  street  steps  held  before  us  a  thin 
wooden  board  full  of  holes,  nearly  all  of  which 
held  bouquets. 

"  Please,  sir,  buy  a  bouquet  for  your  button 
hole." 

We  looked  at  the  tempting  tea  roses  resting 
each  on  a  leaf  of  geranium  so  sweetly  — then 
at  the  poverty-stricken  child  before  us,  and 
wanted  a  bouquet  at  once. 

"How  much  for  this  one,  little  kitten?" 

25 


26  Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God. 

"Ten  cents,  sir." 

"  Here  is  the  money,  and  I  hope  you  will 
sell  all  the  rest  before  I  return." 

Then,  with  the  little  favor  in  a  button-hole, 
we  walked  up  town,  passed  the  great  hotels, 
through  Madison  square  and  on  to  our  destina 
tion.  Then  we  called  on  a  Masonic  brother  in 
another  part  of  the  city  —  then  to  see  a  widow 
lady  who  had  a  sick  child  in  hospital  —  then 
to  a  political  club  meeting,  and  when  we  had 
returned  to  the  office  to  finish  our  week's  work, 
it  was  past  ten  o'clock,  and  as  the  drowsy, 
old-time  watchmen  used  to  say  —  "  All's 
well." 

"  Hello,  little  one  !     You  here  still ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  please." 

"  And  not  sold  all  your  bouquets  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  but  I've  tried  to  ever  so  hard." 

"  How  many  did  you  have  ?  " 

"  Fifty,  sir." 

"  How  many  have  you  left  now  ?  " 


Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God.  27 

"Thirteen,  sir." 

"And  it  is  past  ten  o'clock." 

"Please,  sir,  I  know  it,  but  I  have  sold  all  I 
could." 

"  Why  did  you  wait  here  ?  " 

"To  see  you,  sir." 

"  How  did  you  know  I  would  come  back 
here?" 

"  I  know  you  rooms  here,  sir  —  I've  seen  you 
come  in  very  often." 

"  Which  are  my  rooms  ?  " 

"Up  there,  sir,  where  the  awnings  are  over 
the  windows." 

"  What  did  you  want  to  see  me  for  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  didn't  know  but  you  would 
want  another  bouquet;  and  I  wanted  to  talk 
with  you,  sir." 

"  Talk  with  me  !  What  about ;  and  how  did 
you  know  I  would  stop  to  talk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  knew  you  would.  Sometimes 
my  teacher,  or  the  Superintendent,  reads  your 


28  Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God. 

Saturday  Night  chapters  in  the  Sunday-school, 
and  we  all  know  you  there.  And  I  knew  you 
would,  when  you  called  me  little  Idtlen  when 
you  came  out !  " 

"  Well,  little  puss,  come  up-stairs.  It  is  late, 
but  you  need  not  stay  long." 

Then  we  took  out  the  great  night-key  to  the 
heavy  front-door,  opened  and  entered.  Then 
up  the  broad,  solid  stairway  to  our  private 
rooms.  In  a  moment  the  gas  was  lit,  and  the 
room  was  bright  as  day,  and  soon  we  sat  in  an 
easy  chair  by  the  desk,  while  the  little  bouquet 
seller  sat  on  a  little  ottoman  by  our  feet. 

"Well,  little  kitten,  what  is  your  name?" 

"MargyRadclifie,  sir." 

"How  old  are  you,  Margy?" 

"Nine  years  old,  sir." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"On  Sixth  avenue,  near  Twenty-first  street, 
sir." 

"Is  your  father  alive?" 


Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God.  29 

"Yes,  sir."' 

"  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"  Is  your  mother  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  does  she  do  ?  " 

"Nothing,  sir,  only  sometimes  she  makes 
blue  shirts  for  Mr.  Waterman,  who  keeps  a 
clothing  store." 

O 

"  Have  you  any  brothers  or  sisters  ?  " 
"  One  little  sister,  six  years  old,  sir." 
"  Where  is  she  ?  " 
"Selling  flowers,  too." 
"  Where  do  you  get  them  to  sell  ?  " 
"Of  Mr.  Klein." 

"How  much  do  they  cost,  each  bouquet?" 
"Six  cents  apiece,  sir." 
"  Do  you  sell  fifty  each  night  ?  " 
"Not  always,  but  I  try  to.     If  I  don't,  father 
whips  me." 

"  What  for  —  what  does  he  whip  you  for?" 


30  Wanted  to  Go  Bade  to  God. 

"  Because  I  don't  sell  them  all !  " 

"Does  he  whip  your  sister,  too?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  whips  us  both  !  " 

"  Not  very  hard,  I  reckon ?  " 

"Please,  sir,  look  and  see." 

And  we  looked  on  the  back  and  shoulders  of 
the  little  one  to  see  the  blue  marks  where  ugly 
blows  had  been  by  the  dozen  bestowed  on  the 
little  girl  who  sat  there  in  tears  while  her  flow 
ers  were  on  the  sofa  beside  us. 

"If  you  do  not  sell  all  these  to-night,  will 
your  father  whip  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What  time  must  you  be  home? " 

"  Any  time  before  morning  1  " 

"  Does  your  father  drink  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  every  day  !  " 

"  Does  your  mother  drink  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"  They  do  not  both  get  drunk,  do  they?" 

"Yes,  sir;  'most  every  day." 


•Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God.  31 

"Is  that  the  best  dress  you  have?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  the  only  one." 

"  How  came  you  to  go  to  Sunday-school?" 

"A  good  woman,  with  a  sweet  face  bought 
a  bouquet  of  me  last  spring,  and  came  to  see 
me ;  and  mother-  said  I  might  go  to  Sunday- 
school." 

"And  you  go  every  Sunday?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"That  is  right;  I  wish  all  the  little  chil 
dren  in  the  land  could  go.  Why  do  you  go?" 

"To  learn.  And  my  teacher  is  so  kind  to 
me." 

"Do  you  love  her  better  than  your  father 
or  mother  ?  " 

""Please,  sir,  I  don't  want  to  tell!  But  I 
don't  love  her  better  than  Lotta,  my  little  sis 
ter  ! " 

And  the  tears  ran  down  her  face  as  she 
leaned  forward  and  rested  her  head  in  our  hand 
while  we  stroked  the  dust-filled  hair  which 


32  Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God. 

hung,  but  half  combed,  over  her  neck.  Then 
she  went  to  the  wash-basin  and  gave  her  face 
a  good  bathing,  wet  her  hair,  and  brushed  it. 
Then  we  put  some  cologne  on  it,  and  she 
looked  so  unlike  the  tired  little  Margy  who  had 
been  talking  to  us,  that  when  she  looked  in  the 
mirror  she  almost  laughed. 

Then  she  took  a  glass  of  ice-water  and  an 
apple  from  the  fruit  basket,  and  another  one 
for  her  sister,  and  sat  again  on  the  ottoman 
to  tell  us  what  she  wanted  to  when  she  waited 
for  us. 

And  it  was  a  queer  wish.  She  wanted  us  to 
adopt  her,  or  to  find  her  a  home  somewhere,  in 
some  other  city,  where  her  father  would  not 
find  her,  and  whip  her  so,  and  where  her 
mother  would  not  whip  her  every  day.  She 
told  the  story  of  her  sad  young  life.  Often  had 
she  been  whipped,  and  sometimes  brutally. 
She  swept  street-crossings  in  muddy  weather, 
and  sold  bouquets,  and  picked. rags,  and  so  kept 


Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God.  33 

her  parents  alive  and  in  drink.  They  lived  in 
one  little  room  'way  up-stairs,  and  never  had 
butter  on  their  bread. 

Once  her  father  was  a  merchant.  Then  he 
became  a  politician.  Then  he  became  a  drunk 
ard,  and  lost  all  his  friends.  And  his  wife  took 
to  drink,  and  so  they  drove  their  little  ones  to 
the  street.  God  pity  them  —  and  all  little  chil 
dren  who  have  such  parents. 

She  told  us  that  life  had  no  sunshine  for  her. 
No  matter  how  well  she  did,  cross  words  and 
blows  were  all  the  reward  she  had,  till  now,  if 
we  could  not  find  her  a  home,  she  wanted  to 
be  sick  and  die,  and  go  home  to  God,  who,  she 
said,  she  knew  would  not  be  so  unkind  to 
her  !  And  the  tears  kept  coming  as  she  talked 
to  us. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  when  she  left, 
with  all  her  bouquets  sold.  We  went  with  her 
to  the  door,  and  let  her  out  upon  the  street, 
when  we  saw  her  scamper  away,  glad  to  know 


34  Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God. 

that  another  night  could  she  sleep  on  the  floor 
without  a  whipping. 

We  were  glad  to  make  her  happy,  and  are 
glad  to  know  that  so  many  children,  who  will 
read  this,  or  whose  father  or  mother  will  read 
it  to  them,  have  not  such  cruel,  drunken  par 
ents. 

In  the  great  city  are  thousands  of  poor  chil 
dren  who  do  not  have  even  such  homes  as 
many  poor  children  in  the  country  have,  and 
who  would  be  very  happy  if  they  had  nice  beds 
and  good  food,  and  loving  parents  to  care  for 
them.  We  ask  our  little  friends  in  the  coun 
try  to  think  of  little  Margy  Radclifie  and  her 
poor  life,  of  her  drunken  parents  and  hard 
lot;  and  to  see  if  they  are  not  happy  children, 
after  all.  They  should  be  happy  when  their 
parents  love  them  and  care  .for  them,  as  those 
are  good  at  heart  always  care  for,  or  try  to 
cure  for,  their  little  ones  and  loved  ones,  as  He 
who  is  our  loving  Father  will  care  for  us  all,  if 


Wanted  to  Go  Back  to  God.  35 

we  strive  to  be  good,  to  be  honest,  true  ta  our 
selves  and  to  do  right. 

And  we  who  aro  older  than  children  can 
think  of  her  bitter  young  life  already  so  sicken 
ing  to  her  soul,  that  she  longs  to  die  and  go 
back  to  God.  And  all  of  us  who  have  little 
ones  can  resolve,  that  never  will  we  thus  for 
get  our  manhood,  and  be  unworthy  that  beauti 
ful  rest  with  the  loved  ones  in  the  Land  of  the 
Leal,  when  the  week  of  life  has  gone,  and  we 
can,  like  the  little  waif  whose  story  we  have 
told  as  she  told  it  to  us,  go  to  our  rest  with  our 
work  all  done  and  no  punishment  to  follow  the 
blessed  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ONLY   THINKING. 

|E  came  to  me  in  love  —  every  word, 
every  act,  every  move  was  to 
please.  He  spoke  to  me  so  kindly. 
He  kissed  me  so  tenderly.  He  brought  me 
presents.  He  was  always  neat,  clean,  sweet, 
and  cheerful.  He  seemed  to  live  for  none 
other  than  me.  He  wanted  none  other  to 
speak  to  me  —  wanted  me  to  speak  to  none 
other  except  with  that  cold  formality  which  he 
taught  me  was  queenly. 

Loved  him?  I  could  not  help  it.  Never 
had  I  seen  a  man  so  kind.  He  was  unlike  all 
others.  When  I  rested  my  head  against  his 
Lreast,  he  was  so  careful  where  his  hand  wan- 

36 


Qrdy  ^Thinking.  37 

dered  —  so  gently  would  he  bond  to  kiss  my 
brow  —  so  smooth  and  gentle  felt  his  hand  to 
my  face  —  so  expressive  Avas  the  pressure  of 
his  hand  as  palm  rested  in  palm  —  so  wildly 
thrilling  were  those  long,  earnest,  dreamy 
kisses  upon  my  lips  like  music  of  distant  silver 
bells  or  whispering  murmur  of  low-singing 
ripples  ;  or  like  flutterings  of  beautiful  coquet 
ting  birds  in  the  air,  that  I  sank  to  sweeter 
dreams  in  his  embrace  than  ever  before  came 
to  me  in  hours  of  rest. 

And,  O  !  what  castles  in  the  air  my  fancy 
built !  He  promised  so  much.  His  lips,  his 
eyes,  his  words,  his  touch,  his  look,  his  low 
tones,  his  searching  thoughts,  his  loving  em 
brace,  promised  all  in  all  to  me.  I  asked  for 
no  proof.  Innocent,  loving,  earnest,  believing 
—  thinking  him  the  same,  I  said  yes  to  his  ear 
nest  wooing. 

.     .     .It  seems  like  a  dream! 

A  horrid,  ghastly  dream.     We   were   mar- 


38  Only  Thinking. 

ricd.  And  how  proud  I  was.  In  all  the  world 
no  man  like  my  adored.  I  would  have  fol 
lowed  him  to  death  —  to  hell,  because  I  was 
only  happy  where  he  was.  There  were  but 
two  worlds  to  me.  One  was  the  heart-warmed 
spot  where  he  was.  A  bright,  golden  atmos 
phere  of  love.  A  flower-filled  garden,  around 
which  people  might  stand  or  walk  —  I  cared 
not  which.  The  other  world  was  outside  of 
this  —  all  around  it  —  where  he  was  not.  I 
lived  within  the  golden-aired,  loved-charmed 
circle.  And  I  cared  not  who  lived  outside,  so 
they  did  not  break  in  to  trample  the  flowers 
under  my  beautiful  tree.  I  wanted  not  to  go 
beyond  to  disturb  those  outside  who  might  or 
might  not  have  little  bowers  and  gardens  of 
their  own. 

.  I  was  very  happy.  Others  looked 
in  upon  our  circle  and  envied  us*  .  .  One 
day  tears  came  to  my  eyes.  Perhaps  I  was 
foolish.  I  put  my  hand  upon  my  heart  and 


Only  Thinking.  39 


crowded  it  to  silence,  and  looked  about  my 
beautiful  garden.  I  had  been  mistaken.  It  was 
a  garden  after  all.  A  bright,  beautiful  one.  I 
would  be  happy.  I  was  happy,  .  .  He  did 
not  mean  it.  He  came  in  from  the  world, 
and  was  cold.  I  would  warm  him  to  love  — 
I  did.  He  smiled  as  of  yore.  He  kissed  me  as 
ever.  I  wept,  and  loved  him  tho  more.  I  was 
so  proud  that  I  had  power  over  him  and  could 
warm  his  heart  and  kindle  the  fire  in  his  eye. 

.  .  .  I  rested  in  his  arms.  There  was 
my  place.  I  slept  upon  his  bosom.  I  wakened 
in  the  night  and  felt  for  him  —  over  there.  I 
nestled  to  his  heart.  He  turned  away.  Only 
sleeping  nervousness.  I  kept  still  and  listened 
to  his  breathing,  and  with  careful  hand  lifted 
the  coverlet  to  his  throat  that  he  might  be 
warm.  .  .  He  wakened.  He  spake  not  as 
once.  Then  I  blamed  the  world  for  dealing 

| 

harshly  with  him  —  my  loved.  .  .  He 
turned  from  me  and  slept.  His  hand  was  not 


40  Only  Thinking. 

so  gentle  as  once.  His  words  were  not  so  low- 
toned.  His  kiss  lost  its  electrical  velvet.  He 
was  heavy  and  thoughtless.  But  he  was  mine, 
and  I  was  content. 

.  .  .  There  caine  tears  to  my  eyes.  They 
came  from  my  heart.  Had  I  been  dreaming? 
No,  I  wept,  and  I  slept.  I  went  down  with 
memory  into  the  vapory  amethyst  of  the  past, 
and  visited  with  my  love.  I  felt  again  his 
kiss  —  his  touch  —  his  presence.  I  lived  again 
in  the  gentleness  of  his  heart-lifting  words.  I 
wakened  to  think  of  him.  Perhaps  I  was  ex 
pecting  too  much ! 

But  he  had  promised  even  more  ! 

And  there  came  a  mist  —  a  faint,  dim, 
shadowy  mist  before  my  eyes.  It  rested  over 
my  little  garden.  It  reached  from  edge  to 
edge.  Faint,  shadowy,  almost  transparent. 
Others  did  not  see  it.  .  .  It  grew.  There 
arose  from  it  a  form.  I  stooped  and  looked 
under  it.  There  was  my  lover  —  sitting  as  of 


Only  Thinking.  41 

yore.  My  hand  resting  on  his  bosom.  I  was 
content.  .  .  I  chicled  myself  for  weeping, 
and  rested  with  him.  .  .  I  looked  again. 
The  mist  grew  thicker.  From  where  my  lover 
slept  there  arose  a  form.  A  man.  Slowly  he 
came  up.  It  was  him  I  loved  —  yet  it  was  not. 
I  saw  the  change  before  the  world  did.  I 
stepped  into  the  mist.  I  clung  to  the  changing 
form.  I  forgot  all  save  life  and  my  little  gar 
den.  Still  the  mist  thickened.  The  form  grew. 
Colder,  more  stately.  The  dress  was  not  that 
of  my  love.  The  hand  was  not  his  !  The  kiss 
was  not  his,  but  hurried,  careless,  unsatisfac 
tory.  His  eye  had  lost  its  love-luster.  It  was 
simply  the  eye  of  a  man.  .  .  He  spake  and 
I  listened.  He  commanded  and  I  obeyed  !  He 
desired  and  I  submitted !  He  feasted  and  I 
waited  attendance  in  sickness  or  health.  He 
walked  to  the  wall  and  looked  over  into  the 
world  —  I  gazed  at  him. 

The  mist  grew  thicker.    It  hid  my  lover  from 


42  Only  Thinking. 

me.  It  became  like  a  pavement,  and  under  it 
f  were  my  pretty  flowers  crushed  with  my  air- 
castles.  ...  I  felt  a  horror  within  me. 
I  will  not  tell  you  what  or  how.  I  cannot.  The 
ashes  of  unsympathetic  desire  poison  deep  and 
lasting.  .  .  .  The  horror  became  an  agony. 
The  bosom  I  once  rested  so  sweetly  on,  lost  its 
warmth.  ...  I  looked  about  iny  garden  one 
clay  to  find  its  mossy  banks  turned  to  stone.  I 
was  a  prisoner !  "  But  not  a  murmuring  one. 
Still  I  was  sad.  I  tried  to  be  gay.  lie  came 
in  from  the  world.  Hither  and  yon.  He  came 
with  the  flavor  of  other  lips  upon  his  lips. 

.     He  came  with  an  appetite  gratified. 

.  The  bouquet  I  had  gathered  for  him 
and  culled  the  thorns  therefrom,  became  a  mat 
at  his  door-step.  Our  garden  was  his  at  last. 

.  My  heart  grew  sad  and  sore.  The 
walls  to  our  garden  grew  higher.  He  stepped 
upon  my  prostrate  body,  and  then  leaped  the 
walls  to  gardens  beyond.  He  was  my  husband. 


Only  Thinking.  43 

I  was  his  wife.  I  saw  changes  and  knew  dreads 
the  world  did  not  see  or  know,  or  it  had  pitied 
me !  .  .  The  walls  grew  higher.  The  mist 
grew  colder.  The  one  who  arose  therefrom 
spoke  to  me  —  turned  his  heavy  eyes  upon  me 
—  I  was  dutiful!  .  .  I  was  too  proud  to  cry 
aloud.  I  had  seen,  and  known,  and  felt  what 
others  might  have,  or  might  not  have  felt.  I 
live  to  my  duty.  I  dug  under  the  frozen  mist, 
buried  there  all  my  olden  dreams  and  memo 
ries.  Others  came  and  looked  from  the  outside 
of  my  prison  walls  to  the  within.  They  saw 
something  of  the  change,  but  could  not  see  way 
down  to  where  my  young  life  was  buried.  I 
asked  for  pity.  .  .  They  told  me  martyrs  wore 
crowns.  .  .  I  asked  for  sympathy.  They 
said  I  had  a  protector.  .  .  I  asked  for  kind 
words.  .  *  .  They  said  I  would  find  them  in 
my  marriage  certificate,  which  showed  that  I 
was  a  legal  wife.  .  .  .  They  came  to  the 
fence — to  the  wall  and  looked  over.  They 


44  Only  Thinking. 

tossed  me  a  volume  of  public  opinion  —  a 
prayer-book  —  a  sermon  —  a  congratulation 
that  I  was  a  prisoner  !  He  came  and  he  went.  He 
commanded  and  I  obe}red.  He  went  and  stayed 
long.  He  came  with  hot  breath,  unsteady  step, 
coarse  words,  and  brutal  jests.  His  dress  was 
not  that  of  the  one  I  loved.  He  had  no  kind 
words  as  then.  .  .  .  The  flower  was  fair, 
but  the  fruit !  .  .  .  Merciful  God !  .  .  . 
Is  this  the  dessert  to  the  feast  of  early  love  ? 

Yes !  .  .  .  I  have !  «  .  .  And  why 
not?  He  broke  his  promises.  He  lived  not  for 
me  —  he  loved  me  not.  He  lied  to  me  when  he 
won  me,  or  he  has  so  changed  since  that  even 
the  world — his  friends  would  not  know  him. 
Our  voyage  was  not  to  bring  me  to  a  prison ! 
I  could  have  gone  there  alone  !  .  .*  .  I  have 
wept  —  and  prayed  —  and  waited  —  and  hoped 

—  and  forgiven  —  and  watched  —  and  striven 

—  and  petted  —  and  caressed  —  and  trusted  — 


Only  Thinking.  45 

and   struggled  —  and   yielded  —  and    suffered. 
.    But  the  man  from  the  mist  heeded  not 
—  loved   not !     .     .     .     Bouquets   of    thistles 
and  necklaces  of  serpents  ! 

.  Yes  —  and  it  is  now  too  late.  He 
went  and  he  stayed.  One  came  and  looked  over 
the  walls  to  my  prison  home.  He  was  not  like 
the  one  who  went  wandering  away. 
His  voice  was  kind.  ...  I  listened,  and 
it  reminded  me  of  the  one  who  won  my  love 
years  ago  !  He  spake  and  I  listened,  though  I 
tried  not  to !  .  .  .  O !  the  olden  memo 
ries  !  .  .  .  The  olden  hunger,  when  it  comes  ! 
.  .  .  I  could  not  go  out  —  so  he  leaped  the 
wall  and  came  to  me  !  There  was  no 

one  to  love,  to  watch,  to  guard,  to  protect  me. 
O  !  had  there  been,  he  who  came  might  have 
looked  over  the  wall  —  I  should  never  have 
seen  him.  .  .  .  He  smiled.  He  spake  to  me 
kindly.  He  called  up  the  olden  memories,  and 
they  cauie  to  his  bidding.  .  .  .  What  more  ? 


46  Only  Thinking. 

I  was  dying -of  heart-hunger.  And  he  fed  me. 
Perhaps  it  was  poison,  but  he  fed  me!  . 
And  mine  would  not.  He  was  not  mine,  though 
I  was  his!  Yes  —  I ivas  his  —  I  am  so  still  — 
as  much  as  he  is  mine  !  I  look  not  for  his  com 
ing  —  I  care  not  for  it  now.  He  may  touch  the 
cords  of  the  lute  —  but  the  music  died  out  long 
since.  At  least  for  him.  ...  I  did  wrong. 
.  .  .  Why  did  they  break  the  Sabbath  when 
Christ  was  on  earth?  .  .  .  Because  they 
hungered  !  .  And  how  can  a  prisoner 

have  food  except  the  keeper  bring  it?  And 
he  brought  it  not.  He  bade  me  prepare  feasts. 
Yet  brought  me  nothing  !  .  .  The  world 
condemns?  Well — it  may  !  I  am  but  human. 
What  else  is  the  world?  .  ...  .  "Lead  us 
not  into  temptation."  But  he  who  promised  to 
1  protect  me  led  me  there  and  left  me !  .  « 
Am.  I  more  to  blame  than  he  ?  A  poor,  weak, 
trusting  woman  more  to  blame  than  man,  who 
is  strong,  and  pitied,  and  excused?  t  ;  . 


Only  Thinking.  47 

The  blossom  cannot  combat  the  storm.  The 
rill  cannot  defy  the  frost  —  nor  the  sun  which 
comes  after  it.  ...  The  sunshine  may 
not  last  forever  —  but  it  is  sunshine.  The  cup 
may  not  be  mine,  but  it  gives  life,  and  life  even 
to  a  prisoner  is  something.  If  he  who  promised 
before  God  will  not  love  me  as  each  promised, 
am  I  bound  by  a  contract  he  first  broke  ?  And 
must  I  starve,  while  he  wanders  to  other  feast 
ing  and  self-inviting  banquets  ?  .  .  .  —  Thus 
ran  her  thoughts,  as  with  head  on  her  hand  she 
sat  thinking  more  of  the  past  and  present,  than 
of  this  stormy,  howling,  tempest-driven  Satur 
day  Night. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT   WILL   WE   DO   OVER   THERE? 

|T  is  late,  very  late.  Before  this 
chapter  will  be  finished,  the  day, 
the  week  will  have  gone,  and  an 
other  notch  have  been  numbered  on  the  scale 
of  time. 

But  for  a  long  talk  this  evening  with  an  old 
friend  Ave  should  have  finished  this  chapter  and 
our  allotted  work  for  the  week,  before  this,  and 
have  written  on  another  subject. 

The  friend  who  called  was  an  earnest  man. 
A  deep  thinker,  though  young  as  we  count  by 
years  !  He  came  and  would  not  go  till  he  had 
asked  questions,  and  piled  up,  as  it  were  moun 
tain  high,  ideas,  theories,  and  arguments. 

48 


"  Shr  gat  thinking  more  of  the  past  than  the  present."— See  page  IT. 


Wliat  Will  We  Do  Over  There?        49 

Ho  was  afraid  to  die  ! 

Ho  wanted  to  know  why  he  was.  We  told 
him  all  his  fear  was  the  result  of  pernicious 
education  from  the  teachings  of  those  who  rule 
by  fear,  beneath  a  religion  based  on  eternal, 
God-bestowing  love !  We  pitied  him.  We 
pity  any  one  who  is  afraid  to  go  home  !  We 
pity  the  agent  who  cannot  think  without  fear, 
of  going  to  his  employer.  We  fear  that  relig 
ion —  that  theory — that  belief  which  teaches 
men  to  fear  death.  We  would  fear  to  love  a 
tyrant ! 

All  the  laud  over  are  children  being  edu 
cated  to  dread  death.  Rather  fear  to  live,  lest 
we  fail  to  live  aright. 

It  is  late  and  very  still.  Our  room  seems 
filled  with  a  mellow,  golden  light — with 
smiles.  The  presence  about  us  is  beautiful  be 
yond  power  of  words.  Our  friend  has  gone. 
But  we  have  something  for  him,  for  all  who 
want  more  light. 


50         What  Will  We  Do   Over  There? 

This  is  an  age  of  progression.  Minds  are 
bursting  the  fetters  of  ignorance  and  narrow 
superstition,  as  growing  buds  burst  their  pods ; 
or  growing  trees  burst  the  cords  and  ropes  tied 
never  so  tightly  around  them  by  men. 

Because  this  or  that  was  of  the  past  does 
not  follow  that  it  will  be  of  the  future. 

The  gas-burners  overhead  have  taken  the 
place  of  the  saucerfull  of  fat  with  its  floating 
cloth  wick,  by  which  we  read  years  ago,  as 
that  took  the  place  of  darkness.  The  tele 
graph  has  killed  the  carrier-pigeon  —  the  piano 
has  taken  the  place  of  the  harp  —  the  engine 
has  superseded  the  Ass  on  which  Pie  rode  into 
Jerusalem  —  the  little  letters  or  types  with 
which  these  words  will  be  printed  have  super 
seded  the  hieroglyphics  and  mouth  to  ear  tra 
ditions  of  those  whose  ashes  have  nourished 
trees,  grown  fruits  —  again  enriched  the  earth 
and  sprouted  grass  to  again  enrich  roots  and 
tint  flowers. 


What  Will  We  Do   Over  There  f        51 

These  changes  are  the  work  of  God.  The 
plan  of  creation  —  continuing  creation.  As 
matter  works  upon  matter,  so  mind  upon  mind. 
By  chemical  or  other  process  the  life  of  root, 
bark  and  leaf  is  extracted  —  the  spirit  is  pre 
served,  and  remedies  are  made  to  be  applied  to 
those  who  are  ill. 

By  the  change  called  death  the  dross  is  re 
moved,  but  the  spirit  is  saved.  Thus  the  Gar 
dens  of  God  in  the  wonderful  Land  of  the  Leal 
are  filled  with  new-comers  each  day  till  in  the 
Realms  of  Regeneration  are  multitudes  no  man 
can  count  —  spirits  in  the  Grand  Treasure 
House,  each  to  work  for  all  time  to  come,  but 
standing  face  to  face  and  seeing  no  more  of 
God  Himself  than  we  do  here. 

Why  do  we  grow  —  expand,  progress? 

Why  do  plants  grow  in  hot-houses  ?  Why 
does  iron  take  shape  ?  Because  worked  upon 
by  agencies  —  by  a  power  irresistible.  We 
teach  children  as  those  who  have  passed  on  to 


52         WJiat  Will  We  Do  Over  There? 

another  sphere  'teach  us.  We  are  taught  not 
alone  by  books  nor  by  words.  The  winds, 
the  storms,  the  light,  the  seasons,  the  events 
of  time  teach  us. 

Our  minds  are  operated  on.  Not  by  minds 
here  so  much  as  by  minds  Over  There,  with 
power  to  reach  us ;  to  annihilate  space  —  to 
teach  us  by  thousands  of  agencies.  As  some 
speak  in  many  languages  while  others  speak 
but  one,  and  that  one  poorly. 

While  on  earth  we  have  earth-born  thoughts 
of  earthly  things.  This  is  all  there  is  of  our 
present  creativeness .  Men  make  toys  for  chil 
dren  as  other  minds,  older  than  ours,  tell  us  of 
that  life  —  not  of  earth  and  not  known  by  us  in 
the  least  unless  we  study,  and  ask,  and  are 
willing  to  be  taught  by  those  Avho  alone  can 
teach  from  works  beyond  our  comprehension, 
but  who  do  not  care  to  teach  those  who  will 
not  learn. 

There  are  workshops  in  the  Eternal  as  here. 


What  Will  We  Do  Over  There?        53 

Minds  working  out  great  problems.  Minds 
operating  on  minds  by  the  power  of  that  Eter 
nal  magnetic  influence  increasing  there  as  the 
multitude  increases  in  the  spirit  world  or  realm 
of  improving  minds. 

All  these  inventions  of  the  age  are  not  alone 
of  our  planning !  Others  of  the  unseen  are 
working  with  us.  As  we  sit  in  our  office  in 
the  East  and  direct  agents,  friends,  mediums 
for  working  out  our  orders,  miles  and  miles 
away  in  the  West,  so  do  thinkers,  planners, 
suggesters,  inventors,  teachers  and  helpers  of 
struggling  humanity,  out  of  sight  and  circles 
away  in  advance  of  us,  work  through  us,  with 
us,  and  for  us,  as  for  themselves  and  for  the 
grand  labor  of  Creation  which  was  not  ended 
when  the  world  was,  as  some  say,  finished. 

Th^  world  is  not  finished  ! 

It  never  will  be.  And  there  are  millions  of 
unfinished  worlds.  There  are  workers  there, 
doing  something  of  which  we  may  know  all  in 


54         What  Will  We  Do  Over  There? 

time  as  wo  progress,  fit  ourselves  and  are  fitted 
by  teachers  who  have  passed  the  threshold  be 
fore  us,  and  who  will  aid  us  if  we  will  it  so. 

In  the  Eternal  will  be,  and  are,  workers  for 
good  and  for  evil.  Two  opposite  spirits  — 
forces,  powers.  Two  opposing  principles.  If 
we  are  pure,  loving,  earnest  workers  here, 
careful  to  preserve  our  manhood,  and  to  pro 
gress  in  labor,  intellect,  goodness,  and  high 
attributes,  we  shall,  Over  There,  be  with  and 
work  with  the  pure,  the  kind,  the  beautiful  in 
spirit,  the  loving,  and  the  ones  who  benefit 
those  ever  to  be  educated. 

The  beauty  of  the  Eternal  work  will  be  our 
Heaven.  The  reward  there,  as  here,  when  we 
see  our  plans  prosper,  our  ideas  take  root  and 
grow,  our  labors  adding  to  the  happiness  of 
others.  And  this  will  be  Heaven.  % 

If  we  arc  not  pure,  and  loving,  and  true  to 
that  great  God-like  principle  of  purity  while 
on  earth,  we  will  enter  the  Eternal  Gardens  the 


What  Witt  We  Do  Over  There?        55 

same,  and  will  have  no  place  prepared  for  us  — 
no  beautiful  welcome  from  the  pure ;  sweet 
there,  as  welcomes  here  are  sweeter  from  the 
pure  and  the  good,  more  than  from  those  who 
are  not.  Then  will  come  a  realization  of  lost 
opportunities  in  not  fitting  ourself  by  good  lives 
and  good  deeds  while  at  school  on  earth. 
The  work  on  which  the  good  will  ever  be 
engaged  will  be  work  those  who  are  not  good, 
and  pure,  and  earnest,  and  loving,  and  liberal, 
and  truthful,  while  here  taking  lessons,  will 
not  be  fitted  for. 

Then  will  come  to  them  remorse  of  con 
science  —  regret  to  know  and  to  feel  that  they 
are  in  the  Laud  of  the  New  Life  without  capital, 
or  credit,  or  a  name,  or  a  demand  for  them 
with  the  workers  for  the  good,  And  this  will 
be  their  agony  —  their  hell. 

And  their  lives  must  be  lived  over  again 
under  teachers  and  under  restraints  till  again 
shall  they  pass  on,  but  far  in  the  wake  of  those 


56         What  Will  We  Do   Over  There  ? 

who  are  worthy  and  continually  called  to 
higher  planes  and  greater  teachings,  as  far 
beyond  our  present  comprehension  as  algebra 
is  beyond  the  ken  of  babes,  or  the  science  of 
phonography  is  beyond  the  rude  symbolizings 
of  savages. 

Thus  believing  —  thus  taught  by  those  who 
so  often  come  to  us  with  news  from  those  who 
have  gone  before  us  —  thus  educated  by  unseen 
teachers  who  daily  give  us  lessons  and  proofs 
of  all  this  of  winch  we  write,  death  has  no 
more  terror  for  us  than  has  the  sleep  we  shall 
soon  lie  down  to.  We  have  no  fear  of  hell, 
for  the  worst  of  our  life  is  passed,  as  with  all 
who  are  progressive.  Others  may  not  like  our 
faith,  but  it  is  good  enough  for  us  to  live  by  — 
it  is  all  the  faith  we  want  to  die  by.  Death, 
as  you  call  it,  has  no  terror  for  us,  for  long 
since  have  we  lost  the  fear  thereof. 

Only  do  we  ask  to  live  to  a  purpose  —  to  do 
good  —  to  help  make  others  happier  —  to  com- 


What  Will  We  Do   Over  There?         57 

bat  error  —  to  thrust  our  pen  into  the  dark 
ness,  like  that  Avithin  the  inkstand  before  us, 
that  light  may  follow.  Only  do  we  ask  to  live 
here  for  those  who  love  us  and  whom  we  love, 
caring  nothing  for  the  speech  of  those  who  do 
not  love  us  —  caring  only  to  do  our  duty  —  to 
live  a  good  life  —  to  help  others  —  to  give  com 
fort  to  those  in  darkness,  waiting  for  the  light 
which  will  soon  come  to  all  on  earth,  as  will 
come  the  rest,  the  dawn,  the  Sabbath  morning 
after  shall  have  faded  out  and  passed  away  the 
darkness  of  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A    LIFE    LOST  ! 

EFOKE  us  is  a  letter  opened  not  an 
hour  since.  The  echoes  of  the  silent 
words  it  contains  are  reverberating 
down  and  through  the  corridors  of  memory  — 
waking  echoes  on  the  points  and  in  the  valleys 
of  the  road  to  the  river  long  since  passed.  We 
have  been  thinking  of  the  contents  of  the  letter. 
Not  a  tear  has  fallen,  but  a  great  welling  sensa 
tion  of  the  heart  —  a  silent  reaching  back,  as 
if  to  recover  that  part  of  life's  chain  which  is 
slipping  from  us,  seven  links  a  week  —  to  look 
at  a  portion  thereof  again. 

By  the  way,  Mrs. ,  she  whom  you  know 

was  Maggie ,  died  Saturday  night  last,  and  was  buried 

68 


A  Life  Lost.  59 

this  afternoon.  Poor  woman  —  I  could  not  help  weeping  like 
a  child  as  I  stood  and  saw  her  coffin  settling  to  its  resting- 
place.  And  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you,  for  you  too  knew 
her  and  will  drop  a  tear  over  her  unhappy  memory. 

Gone  Home  !  O  !  Father,  we  thank  Thee, 
and  not  one  single  tear  holds  back  or  gives 
weight  to  the  kindly  greeting  we  send  in 
thought,  from  the  heart  on  the  sunshine,  over 
the  humanity-filled  river  which  marks  the 
boundaries  of  here  and  there  ! 

Poor  Maggie  here  —  happy  Maggie  there. 
Would  you  care  to  know  of  her  ?  We  will  tell 
a  little  chapter  of  life-history,  woven  by  the 
longings  of  the  soul  —  burned  by  tears  into  the 
vail  so  many  wear,  to  keep  their  hearts  from 
the  eyes  of  those  who  cannot  penetrate  to  the 
beyond. 

Years  ago  we  knew  her.  A  beautiful  girl 
budding  into  womanhood.  Did  we  love  her? 
Others  did,  for  hers  was  a  soul  and  a  heart 
worthy  all  love.  One  who  loved  her,  with  her 


60  A  Life  Lost. 

wondrous  eyes  and  beautiful  golden  hair,  was  a 
friend  of  ours.  A  noble-hearted,  brave,  earnest 
young  man,  whose- life  was  like  glass,  clear,  for 
all  men  to  see  through.  A  thousand  hearts  in 
one  not  richer  than  his  in  manly  worth,  im 
pulses  noble,  and  purpose  pf  ambition  honest, 
and  boldly  reaching  high  above  and  beyond 
those  who  little  reflect.  But  he  was  poor  in  all 
save  pluck.  No  heart  and  hand  more  quick  or 
open  to  the  needy  in  weakness  or  affliction. 
'Twas  he  that  loved  poor  Maggie,  and  never 
were  mortals  better  mated  to  make  life's  path 
way  smooth,  and  bring  happiness  each  to  the 
heart  of  the  other. 

But  to  them  the  future  was  dark  —  perhaps 
because  his  faith  did  not  reach  through  the 
gloom  to  the  golden-lined  success,  waiting  his 
winning.  He  trembled  between  ho'pe  and  fear 
—  between  storms  of  heart  and  brain,  as  does 
the  leaf,  when  counter  currents  toy  with  its  fee 
bleness.  He  lacked  the  bold  earnestness  and 


A  Life  Lost.  61 

manly  daring  to  take  her  to  himself,  and  swim 
steadily,  battling  the  waves,  till  the  beautiful 
island  in  the  sea  of  life  was  reached.  He  feared 
to  lose  her,  and  so  fearing,  lost  her  forever,  and 
down  the  tide  of  time  swept  her  heart  and  their 
happiness,  as  merry  laugh  of  child  is  borne  to 
the  dark  home  of  the  tempest  in  the  stormy 
hours  of  night.  He  did  not  know  how  stout  of 
heart,  brave  of  soul,  glorious  in  trusting  confi 
dence,  a  woman  can  be  when  wholly  loved  by 
an  honest  heart,  no  matter  how  closely  poverty 
keeps  vigil  and  guard.  Nor  did  he  know  that 
love,  patience,  and  economy  will  sooner  or 
later  drive  the  gaunt  sentry  from  its  post. 

And  Maggie  ?  Those  who  held  restraint  paren 
tal  over  her  life  and  heart  said  to  her  that  she 
must  not  marry  one  who  was  poor.  They  told 
her  she  had  been  educated  to  grace  the  parlor. 
They  told  her  she  must  not  wed  the  youth  who 
loved  her,  and  whose  heart  with  hers  speeded 
joyously,  lightly,  trustingly  together  far  out  iu 


62  A  Life  Lost. 

that  ocean  of  happy  life,  beckoning  them  to  fol 
low  hand  in  hand.  They  told  her,  while  her 
poor  heart  was  breaking,  that  it  was  her  duty  to 
marry  to  please  her  parents.  That  they  knew 
better  than  she  what  she  wanted.  As  if  other 
than  God  or  the  one  chosen  by  sympathetic 
nature  can  read  the  heart ! 

And  poor  Maggie,  "  like  a  dutiful  girl," 
drank  the  poison  of  parental  interference,  bur 
ied  her  heart  beneath  its  dead  hopes,  gave  her 
hand  to  the  choice  of  those  who  were  murder 
ing  her,  and  with  her  education,  her  love  all 
dead,  became  the  wife  of  another,  who  had 
wealth  and  friends  of  influence,  and  who  told 
her  she  must  wed  him  or  he  would  die,  and  his 
death  would  rest  on  her  soul.  As  if  one  who 
would  thus  demand  could  really  love  a  woman 
and  make  her  happy  ! 

Years  fled  as  if  affrighted.  The  proud  young 
man,  who  so  loved  the  beautiful  girl  for  her 
heart  and  trusting  goodness,  died,  risking  his 


A  Life  Lost.  63 

life,  at  Fredericksburg.  'Twas  there  they  found 
him,  his  forehead  pierced  by  a  musket  ball, 
asleep  ;  the  clotted  blood  hiding  the  face.  A 
litle  locket  suspended  by  a  golden  chain  from 
his  neck  hid  the  features  of  the  only  one  he 
ever  truly  loved  —  poor  Maggie,  who  was  doing 
her  duty  as  the  wife  of  another.  God  rest  him, 
and  her,  in  the  mellow  sunlight  of  united  love 
amid  the  ever-blooming  flowers  of  the  beautiful 
Eternal.  Do  we  mourn  her  death — her  life 
you  mean  ?  No  ! 

She  lived  for  duty.  'Twas  a  broken  heart 
and  a  passive  hand  she  gave  another.  He  mar 
ried  her  for  her  beauty.  Those  who  marry  for 
this  roam  for  the  same  ! 

The  years  came  and  the  years  went.  She 
lived  in  a  "home,"  but  in  it  was  little  sunshine 
for  her.  She  tried  to  do  her  duty.  She  tried 
to  love  him.  He  was  kind  to  her  as  goes  the 
world.  He  surrounded  her  with  luxuries  — 
with'  pride  presented  her  as  his  wife.  He  was 


64  A  Life  Lost. 

• 

proud  of  her  beauty,  and  felt  safe  to  leave  her 
with  others,  for  he  knew  her  life  was  cold,  pas 
sionless,  unmoved  by  love.  By  this  he  trusted 
her.  Not  like  one  whose  soul  is  filled  with 
that  grand,  deep,  wondrous  love  that  so  takes 
to  itself  a  kindred  soul  and  defies  the  world  to 
step  between  or  to  win  away  from  that  God- 
blessed  allegiance  which  is  oil  upon  the  waves 
of  the  dark  river,  that  those  who  love  truly 
may  pass  over  to  the  flower-lined  shores,  un- 
tossed,  unharmed,  unseparated ! 

But  poor  Maggie.  Her  life  was  not  thus. 
He  drank  of  her  beauty,  then  quaffed  from 
other  cups.  He  held  her  by  cable  of  iron  and 
anchors  of  ice.  She  was  his  wife.  He  came 
and  went.  When  he  took  her,  the  ruins  of  her 
only  love  were  upon  the  grief-wrapped  altar  of 
her  heart,  and  its  portals  closed  —  he  could 
never  enter  to  the  mellow  warmth,  the  life- 
giving  beauty,  the  crowning  happiness  of  mor 
tality.  He  could  only  live  outside,  receiving 


A  Life  Lost.  65 

the  kindness  of  a  noble  woman,  from  her  con 
sciousness  of  his  claim.  And  she  lived.  God 
alone  knows  how.  Her  life  grew  almost  insup 
portable  ;  to  be  daily,  nightly,  subject  to  the 
intimate  companionship  of  a  being  whose 
coming  she  dreaded — whose  kiss  chilled  her 
very  soul — \vhose  touch  was  agony  —  whose 
passionate  embrace  a  painful,  sickening,  dis 
gusting  horror  t  But  she  lived  to  her  duty 
like  one  who  walks  to  martyrdom.  In  bis 
presence  her  tired  heart  shrank  away  like  the 
drop  of  clew  caught  by  the  frost.  But  che  was 
.doing  her  duty  !  She  was  dying  by  inches. 
Her  murderers  were  proud  of  her.  The  breath 
of  scandal  never  swept  her  down.  Shri  was  a 
model  wife.  Cold,  distant,  indifferent.  Her 
smile  was  fitful,  like  the  sunbeam  of  autumn 
flying  before  the  wind,  as  if  in  terror  hastening 
homeward,  or  anywhere  to  escape. 

She    did  her  duty !     She   cared  for  him  in 
sickness  without  murmur.    And  when  fit  .n 


66  A  Life  Lost. 

nursing  came  health,  he  roamed  for  beauty; 
and  wasted  his  strength  in  lifting  other  goblets 
to  his  lips.  Her  home  was  her  prison.  But 
she  lived  for  her  duty !  Oft  did  she  wish  to 
escape  —  to  go  out  into  the  world  —  to  the 
grave  of  her  dead  love,  anywhere  rather  than 
walk  in  Siberian  torture.  But  no  1  The  world 
stood  before  her  like  an  army  of  savages  with 
uplifted  weapons  to  beat  down  whoever  would 
run  the  gauntlet  from  bondage  to  freedom  — 
from  misery  to  happiness.  The  world  can  pray 
and  advocate  for  liberation  of  laborers  from 
protected  servitude,  then  dance  in  glee  around 
the  pyres  whereon  are  burning  sorrow-laden 
hearts,  and  call  this  unspeakable  torture,  Chris 
tianity  ! 

She  longed  to  take  back  to  herself  the 
wreck  of  her  hopes,  to  go  alone  to  the  grave 
of  her  life,  and  look  over  its  withered  leaves ; 
she  longed  to  escape  the  torture  only  women 
held  like  her  can  feel ;  she  longed  to  escape 


A  Life  Lost.  67 

the  cold,  indifferent,  unloving,  heart-destroy 
ing  tyranny  of  "  home ;  "  to  find  some  one  to 
love  who  would  love  her;  to  live  a  life  of 
usefulness  and  prepare  for  Heaven  —  but  no  ! 
Bigotry,  puritanism,  fanaticism,  ignorance, 
narrow-minded  illiberality  waved  its  banner 
from  door  of  church  and  the  corrupt  society 
that  there  find  such  frequent  cover,  and  the 
cohorts  of  despotic  tyranny  sprang  to  toss 
back  into  freezing  waters  the  poor,  heart- 
wrecked  unfortunate,  thrust  therein  by  author 
ity  and  forms  ceremonial,  only  to  sink  to  the 
bottom,  content  with  doing  a  Christian  duty. 

So  lived  poor  Maggie.  So  she  died.  Her 
life  was  lost.  Not  when  the  kind  angel  caught 
her  prayer,  and  bore  it  with  her  sorrowed  soul 
to  brighter  scenes,  but  when  she  followed  duty 
to  the  prison  cell  wherein  her  heart  was  locked 
and  kept  a  freezing  prisoner.  Her  life  was  a 
failure.  She  marked  no  happy  result.  Her 
life  was  not  a  beautiful  flower  to  adorn  and 


68  A  Life  Lost. 

beautify.  She  was  cowardly,  but  the  world 
that  stood  with  hot  tongue  and  bitter-pointed 
pen  in  front  of  her  prison  to  terrify,  defame, 
and  pierce  through  the  one  who,  but  for  this 
inhuman  cowardice,  might  have  been  happy, 
is  a  million  times  more  so.  And  so  to-night 
we  have  been  thinking.  Poor  Maggie  went 
homo  a  week  since.  Her  Saturday  Night  came 
and  brought  her  joy  at  last.  We  are  glad. 
Her  life  was  lost  years  ago. 

O  !  kind  Father  in  Heaven,  wilt  Thou  not 
lead  her  to  its  return  in  the  beautiful  Land  of 
the  Leal,  where  Christianity  is  different  from 
that  called  Christianity  here  ?  She  was  good 
here.  She  gave  strict  obedience  to  her  parents. 
She  knelt  with  them  in  childhood,  and  grew  to 
womanhood  on  the  cold,  heartless,  unchristian, 
illiberal  barren  of  mistaken  duty,  as  if  GOD, 
who  is  all  goodness,  asks  those  who  come  to 
His  breast  to  come  with  dead  hearts,  trembling 
spirits,  dread  and  disgust  of  the  present  life, 


A  Life  Lost.  69 

which  is  to  fit  us  for  happiness  hereafter,  in 
proportion  as  we  are  truly  happy,  deserving 
and  liberal. 

Some  day  we  will  plant  a  flower  over  the 
bed  where  sleeps  the  one  whose  life  was  lost  — 
who  was  held  by  her  parents  and  her  husband, 
while  a  Christian  world  did  with  devilish  satis 
faction  most  brutal  murder. 

And  we  will  plant  a  flower  there  which  will 
grow  to  shelter  the  thousands  and  tens  of  thou 
sands  of  heart-wrecked  women  of  the  laud, 
who,  following  a  line  of  mistaken  duty,  with 
grief-strained  hearts,  trembled  before  an  illib 
eral  world,  and  follow  their  so-thought  destiny 
to  a  grateful  grave.  We  know  there  are  thou 
sands  of  them,  and  know  that  a  more  liberal 
morn  is  breaking.  It  is  not  the  duty  of  any 
person  to  make  him  or  herself  miserable.  It 
is  this  mistaken  idea  which  is  demoralizing 
society.  The  doctrine  that  women  must  live 
simply  to  a  duty  —  that  that  duty  is  to  live 


70  A  Life  Lost. 

with  tyrants,  brutes,  despots,  filthy  forms,  and 
those  whose  touch  is  agony  —  whose  caresses 
are  only  for  self-gratification  —  whose  hearts 
blend  not  with  hearts  simply  because  the  world 
so  edicts,  is  filling  the  land  with  sorrow,  crimi 
nality,  and  reckless  search  after  happiness  in 
paths  where  it  is  seldom  found.  Exclude  the 
light  from  a  plant,  and  it  dies.  Let  light  in 
from  only  one  direction,  and  the  vine  reaches 
its  pale  tendrils  toward  the  blessing.  So  with 
the  heart.  If  there  be  no  light  of  love  com 
pletely  surrounding  it,  there  will  be  reaching 
out  this  way  and  that  to  find  that  which  is  in 
reality  all  there  is  of  life,  as  it  is  the -great 
basis  of  His  mercy,  power,  and  goodness. 

God  rest  the  ones  whose  lives  were  lost. 
And  may  the  thousands  everywhere  who  read 
this  be  happier  than  was  she  who  sleeps  now 
in  a  country  churchyard.  May  parents  not 
murder  hearts.  -May  men  not  demand  sacri 
fices  which  will  rust  their  souls,  and  ma)  all 


A  Life  Lost.  71 

the  young  who  would  be  happy  find  as  true 
hearts  as  had  the  one  who  lay  down  to  his  rest 
on  the  field  of  battle.  And  to  those  who,  like 
poor  Maggie,  are  tied  to  a  devilish,  heart-tor 
turing  duty ;  may  they  dare  step  out  from 
life-losing  bondage,  take  back  their  own,  and 
teach  men  that  though  woman  be  weak,  she 
can  be  strong  in  this  her  great  protection, 
while  waiting  for  joys  in  the  Island  of  Rest, 
where  the  sun  is  Love,  the  Christianity  lib 
eral,  and  there  never  comes  for  the  soul  the 
darkness  of  a  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TO     A   POOR   LITTLE    BOY. 

JJHIS  stormy  Saturday  night,  as  we 
were  on  the  street,  with  a  protector 
from  the  rain,  looking  in  at  the  shop 
windows,  at  the  beauty  and  the  brightness 
therein  displayed  ;  then  at  the  storm  evidences' 
and  darkness  outside,  and  thinking  how  much 
like  life  was  all  this,  a  poor,  little,  ragged 
newsboy  came  up  to  us. 

But  first,  our  musing  over  the  light  within, 
and  the  darkness  without.  Some  one  had  lit 
the  lights  and  lamps  within,  and  all  was  bright 
ness.  Without  these  lights  all  would  have 
been  darkness  in  these  now  beautiful  shops, 
And  so  with  us  all.  The  lamps  of  love  —  the 

72 


To  a  Poor  Little  Boy.  73 

light  of  kindness  and  good-nature  we  keep  in 
our  hearts,  make  us  happy  —  make  others 
happy,  and  no  matter  how  the  storm  of  life 
may  rage  outside,  all  is  cheery  within,  and 
friends  come  to  rest  with  us. 

The  little  newsboy.  He  was  a  ragged  little 
fellow,  for  he  had  no  home,  as  have  thousands 
of  the  boys  who  read  this.  His  feet  were  bare 
and  blue,  for  the  weather  is  cold.  The  rain 
dripped  from  the  bottom  of  his  ragged  vest  and 
pants,  and  beat  in  through  his  torn  cap,  to 
moisten  his  nut-brown  hair,  so  soft  and  glossy. 

We  did  not  know  him — but  he  knew  us,  as 
witness  the  following  well-remembered  conver 
sation. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Pomeroy.  Will  you 
have  a  paper?"  And  he  handed  ns  one  yet 
damp  from  the  press. 

"Certainly.  How  many  have  you  yet  to 
sell?" 

"Nine  more  —  I  have  sold  forty-one  now." 


74  To  a  Poor  Little  Boy. 

"Well,  here  is  the  money  for  all  you  have 
left.  And  if  you  can  sell  all  but  this  one 
again,  do  so." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  And  please,  sir  —  will 
you  do  me  a  favor,  sir  ?  " 

And  he  looked  up  so  honest  and  earnest, 
who  could  help  answering  promptly,  — 

"  Certainly,  my  little  friend,  if  it  be  possible. 
What  is  it?" 

"Well,  sir  —  I  don't  know  as  you  will,  but  I 
wish  you  would  write  just  one  '  Saturday 
Night '  chapter  for  me  !  I  would  rather  you 
would  than  give  me  a  new  suit  of  clothes  !  " 

"  Write  a  e  Saturday  Night '  for  you  ?  What 
shall  we  say  ?  Perhaps  our  good  angel  will  not 
be  willing  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes!  It  seems  as  if  she  would,  or. I 
never  would  have  come  and  asked  you  !  I  will 
keep  it,  and  some  day  will  thank  you  for  it  if  I 
live." 

O  !  the  beauty  and   the    strength    of  perfect 


To  a  Poor  Little  Boy.  75 

faith.  "  Ask  and  ye  shall  receive  "  came  to  us, 
and  we  told  the  little  fellow  we  would.  Then 
he  bade  us  good-night  and  went  his  way,  while 
we  walked  on  in  the  rain,  our  heart  as  light  and 
cheerful  as  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  places 
we  passed  and  peered  into  through  uublinded 
windows. 

....•••• 

—  Saturday  Night  to  a  little  Newsboy. 

God  love  the  earnest  little  fellow  —  and  all 
.the  earnest  little  boys  in  the  world.  We  will 
write  for  him  and  for  them,  if  they  will  come 
and  sit  here  in  our.  pleasant  room.  It  is  not 
large,  but  millions  can  sit  with  us,  and  the 
golden  presence  which  so  mellows  our  life  and 
makes  us  happy,  will  touch  them  all,  to  warm, 
to  gladden,  to  beautify,  with  that  wondrous 
power  would  to  God  all  might  possess. 

And  now,  little  fellow,  sit  right  here  on  this 
ottoman,  whereon  many  and  nlany  a  heart 
broken  sufferer  has  sat  to  tell  us  her  or  his 


76  To  a  Poor  Little  Boy. 

story.  Sit  there,  so  we  can  look  into  your 
eyes,  and  we  will  talk  with  you. 

You  are  a  poor  little  boy.  A  homeless 
wanderer.  One  that  is  almost  forgotten.  So 
were  we  once,  and  thus  having  been,  we  will 
talk  very  plainly  and  kindly  to  you  to-night, 
just  as  a  gentle  presence  so  often  by  day  and 
by  night  —  when  the  heart  was  full  of  doubt 
and  storm  —  talked  with  us  till  happiness 
came  to  her  bidding. 

You  wish  to  be  a  man  ?  Then  you  can  be. 
The  future  is  before  you,  ready  to  unfold  beau- 
•ties  if  you  earn  them.  What  if  you  are  poor 
now?  You  can  be  good,  and  the  rich  can  be 
no  more  !  You  can  work  and  you  can  win. 
In  time  you  can  become  a  leader  among  men. 
And  if  you  cannot  lead,  you  can  follow,  till 
others  see  your  good  qualities,  and  put  you 
ahead. 

Only  be  honest.  Be  kind.  Do  not  be 
coarse  and  vulgar,  for  thus  is  your  heart  dead- 


To  a  Poor  Little  Boy.  77 

ened,  as  the  rust  which  marks  where  lemon- 
juice  rested  on  the  steel  blade  spoils  its  beauty 
and  weakens  it  forever.  Be  kind  to  those  who 
are  poor  and  weak.  See  how  much  you  can 
do  well  each  day.  See  how  much  you  can 
learn.  See  how  much  you  can  do  each  week 
that  you  will  feel  satisfied  with.  And  do  not 
fret,  nor  give  up.  Boys  who  thus  act  are  poor 
timber,  and  soon  break. 

What  if  some  boy  is  better  dressed,  and 
sneers  at  you  ?  Pass  him  by  ;  it  is  hard  to  tell 
who  will  win  the  race.  Suppose  that  boy  rides 
in  a  carriage.  Thank  God  you  have  health  to 
walk  and  run,  and  some  day  you  can  ride  if 
you  will.  See  how  much  of  a  little  man  you 
can  be ;  and  some  day  we  will  see  how  much 
of  a  great  man  you  are.  And,  above  all,  be 
honest  and  be  prompt.  Never  refuse  to  do  a 
favor  when  you  can,  even  to  an  enemy,  if  the 
favor  be  based  on  the  right.  And  do  not  be 


78  To  a  Poor  Little  Boy. 

envious  of  others,  for  envy  curdles  the  young 
life  to  make  an  unhappy  old  age. 

Keep  on  trying.  Many  have  failed,  but 
others  have  won.  Do  your  work  willingly, 
and  never,  never ',  NEVER  be  afraid  or  ashamed 
of  work.  GOD  Himself  was  a  worker  —  be 
hold  what  He  did !  And  we  who  would  suc 
ceed  must  work  and  wait ;  the  good  seed  sown 
to-day  brings  its  reward  all  in  due  time. 

Sometimes,  my  little  boy,  the  days  will  be 
dark,  and  it  will  seem  such  hard  work  to  wait. 
You  will  imagine  others  to  be  doing  better 
than  yourself.  Very  likely ;  but  are  you  not 
doing  much  better  than  many  others?  And 
you  must  try  to  do  even  better  than  the  best. 
And  so  the  years  will  come  and  go.  And 
friends  will  come  —  never  to  go  if  they  bo 
friends,  and  you  be  deserving.  Each  day, 
each  week,  each  month,  each  year,  will  find 
you  stronger,  and  braver,  and  better,  and  rich 
er,  and  more  loved,  and  happier,  as  you  will 


To  a  Poor  Little  Boy.  79 

add  to  your  influence  and  use  it  for  the 
right. 

Honors  will  follow  confidence.  As  you  re 
spect  yourself,  others  will  respect  you.  As 
you  strive  to  be  somebody,  others  will  help 
you,  for  you  then  can  help  them!  You  will 
live  to  see  many  of  the  rich  boys  you  envy  go 
to  wreck  and  to  ruin.  You  will  see  poverty, 
following  dissipation,  take  them  to  its  embrace, 
and  rest  with  them  in  the  gutter,  where  the 
smiles  of  friends  are  not  known.  You  will  see 
the  grave  close  over  the  forms  of  those  who, 
unlike  you,  have  no  self-respect,  no  pride,  no 
wish  to  be  good,  or  great,  or  powerful.  And 
each  year  you  will  be  more  loved  as  you  are 
good  and  deserving.  And  you  will  look  back 
with  such  earnest  pride  to  your  own  success, 
—  to  the  loved  ones  about  you  —  to  the  con 
quests  you  have  made  —  after  first  learning  to 
rule  and  govern  yourself. 

Thus  and  thus  only  will  your  life  be  a  sue- 


80  To  a  Poor  Little  Boy. 

cess.  It  is  easy  to  be  a  loafer  —  to  be  a  drunk 
ard —  to  be  a  coarse,  careless,  brutal  man; 
but,  my  little  boy,  you  can  be  so  much  more  if 
you  will.  Years  have  we  lived, —  long  labor- 
giving  years,  — but  never  have  we  seen  a  poor 
boy  long  friendless,  or  a  deserving  man  long 
out  of  a  situation.  So  try  earnestly,  and  some 
body  will  help  you  —  somebody  will  love  you 
—  somebody  will  be  proud  of  you,  and  your 
life  will  be  beautiful. 

We  wish  all  the  little  boys  in  our  great  coun 
try  would  try  to  be  good  men  —  to  be  sober, 
earnest,  deserving  men.  Some  of  them  will, 
and  some"  of  them  will  not.  Those  who  try  will 
be  loved,  and  happy.  Those  who  do  not  will 
never  know  the  real  helping  support  good  lives 
and  good  actions  bring,  but  will  drop  by  the 
wayside  into  pine-coffins,  shallow  graves,  weed- 
covered  burial-places  ;  unhouored,  and  "Soon  for 
gotten. 

While  those  who  arc   good   and  who  strive 


To  a  Poor  Little  Boy.  81 

earnestly  will  be  men  of  wealth,  of  power,  of 
worth,  of  influence.  They  will  help  make  laws, 
for  the  days  of  bad  law-makers  in  this  country 
.are  passing  steadily  away.  And  they  can  do 
good,  and  at  last,  when  they  have  won  victories 
here,  have  conquered  obstacles,  and  been  re 
warded  on  earth,  will  be  so  trained,  purified, 
and  made  useful,  that  there  will  be  given  to 
them  great  works  and  less  labor,  over  the 
River  in  the  Land  of  the  Leal,  where  beautiful 
Groves,  and  harmonious  Homes,  and  Eternal 
Love  will  hold  all  who  are  good,  as  we  pray 
sweet  sleep  to  fold  in  her  careful  embrace 
each  and  every  one  who  reads  this  well-meant 
ending  of  the  week  and  of  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     BEAUTY    OF    LIFE. 

JJEVER  so  blessed  a  Saturday  Night 
as  this  came  to  us  before.  Perhaps 
you  do  not  care  to  read  this,  which 
some  may  call  but  sentiment.  But  it  is  life. 
All  the  week  we  have  been  so  happy.  Every 
day  a  day  nearer.  Every  week  a  shortening 
of  the  time  so  long  a-coming.  The  watch  open 
before  us  ticks  the  seconds  —  chips  from  the 
block  of  God's  time  —  into  the  well  of  the  past, 
as  drops  fall  from  an  ascending  bucket.  And 
the  crystal  drops  not  purer  than  we  are  happy 
to-night,  for  the  week  just  ending  bears  more 
than  one  record  of  good,  and  not  one  of  inten 


tional  wrong. 


82 


The  Beauty  of  Life.  83 

And  we  are  happy  to-night,  for  she,  too,  is 
happy.  And  would  you  know  who  she  is  ?  We 
will  tell  you  if  you  care  to  know. 

• 

One  day  —  oh,  long  ago  —  if  days  or  weeks, 
or  months,  or  other  notches  of  time  were  cen 
turies,  we  met  her.  A  pure,  loving,  trusting, 
earnest  woman,  whose  kind  words  warmed  our 
soul,  and  whose  trusting  smile,  so  heaven-lit, 
seemed  such  a  protection.  All  the  day  and  the 
days  had  we  been  tempted ;  it  seemed  beyond 
our  strength.  Others  had  turned  against  us. 
Others  had  spoken  bitter,  cruel,  cutting  words, 
perhaps  because,  not  guided  by  the  same  light, 
they  did  not  see  as  we  did,  and  not  know  our 
motives.  Before  it  seemed  as  if  the  world  had 
all  gone  wrong.  And  as  the  shadows  darkened 
over  our  heart,  to  crush,  to  deaden,  to  destroy 
—  as  dissipation  opened  wide  the  portals  to  bid 
us  enter,  she  came  between  us  and  ruin  with  the 
Heaven-born  protecting  love  of  purity,  kind 
ness,  confidence,  and  that  deep  perfection  of 


84  The  Beauty  of  Life. 

love  which  casts  out  fear,  and  so  gives  strength 
to  good  resolves  and  impulses  for  the 
right.  ... 

And  often  has  her  love  been  our  shield  from 
life's  storms.  When  tempted  to  dissipate,  to 
squander,  to  forget,  her  love-lit  eye,  her  trust 
ing,  earnest,  heart-reaching  look  has  come  to 
us.  In  dreams  she  has  been  beside  us —  in  the 
hours  of  the  day  and  the  night  her  words  and 
smiles  have  been  with  us. 

When  we  tried  to  do  right  she  always  encour 
aged.  When  we  were  wrong,  she  came  with 
gentle  hand,  to  rest  us  with  her  velvet  touch. 
When  others  looked  bitter,  she  looked  sweet  — 
tenfold  so  as  we  turned  to  her  with  a  heart  all 
her  own,  for  life  or  death. 

She  is  and  always  has  been  good  to  us.  She 
believes  m  us.  She  trusts  us,  and  God  knows 
we  would  not  deceive  her.  She  has  an  influence 
over  us  —  and  knows  it.  So  she  exercises  it 
only  for  the  good,  the  pure,  the  noble. 


The  Beauty  of  Life.  85 

We  talk  with  her.  We  tell  her  all.  The 
grave  is  not  closer  than  her  lips  when  the  secret 
of  another  is  behind  them.  We  live  in  her  love, 
grow  strong  in  her  faith,  and  are  happy  because 
entirely  content.  We  have  no  fears  she  will 
forget  us  or  fail  to  love.  We  have  no  fears  that 
any  one  can  win  her,  for  we  defy  any  one,  ex 
cept  aided  by  God's  great  power,  to  come  be 
tween  us  —  to  separate  us. 

She  is  good,  and  kind,  and  pure,  and  so  we 
love  her.  If  she  were  not  thus  to  us  she  would 
trifle  with  us,  and  then  our  love  would  be  lost. 

Every  day  do  we  have  evidence  of  her  love 
and  care.  She  did  this  to-day  —  that  yester 
day,  and  that  the  day  before,  to  aid  us  both  — 
to  make  us  happy.  She  fixed  that  article  ;  she 
arranged  those ;  she  makes  our  little  room .  so 
homelike  ;  she  leaves  the  imprint  of  herself  on 
each  book,  picture,  flower;  each  little  gift, 
keepsake  and  memento  in  the  room,,  as  her 


86  The  Beauty  of  Life. 

little  work,  so  neatly  done,  was  to  add  to  our 
happiness  and  the  beauty  of  our  home. 

I  am  proud  of  her,  of  her  love.  I  am  hon 
ored  by  her  trust  in  me.  I  have  faith  in  her 
love  and  her  protecting  influence.  I  know  she 
is  the  best  friend  I  have  on  earth ;  that  to  her 
I  owe  so  many,  many  hours  of  happiness. 

And  as  I  am  happy  in  this  true,  pure,  earnest 
love,  so  am  I  earnest  in  its  defence.  My  heart 
is  so  full  of  goldcn-hued  sunshine.  Every  day 
I  try  more  and  more  to  be  good,  to  be  kind; 
to  do  some  good,  and  to  live  to  some  purpose. 
And  the  more  I  try  the  more  I  succeed,  and 
the  happier  we  both  are.  She  is  the  queen 
and  I  am  the  subject.  Here  she  rules  better 
than  with  the  ballot,  for  now  my  pride  is  to 
protect  her,  thus  growing  stronger  myself. 
Yet  she  does  vote.  My  heart  is  the  ballot- 
box,  her  eyes  the  voters,  her  kind  words  the 
ballots,  with  not  one  against  me  from  week  to 
week,  from  month  to  month. 


The  Beauty  of  Life.  87 

And  I  feel  so  proud  to  know  that  I  am  a 
kind,  loving,  earnest,  darling-loving  working- 
man.  I  am  proud  to  think  I  am  worthy  the 
love  of  a  good,  pure,  virtuous  woman,  whose 
heart  and  mine  each  year  run  more  and  more 
together  as  our  lives  ripen  for  a  pleasant  hand- 
in-hand  walk  through  all  the  groves  of  God  in 
the  beautiful  Land  of  the  Leal.  Others  may 
dissipate  and  waste  their  strength,  but  while 
she  loves  me  I  cannot  fall  —  /  will  not.  So 
says  that  good  spirit  which  for  so  many  years 
has  been  with  us  —  which  has  led  us  back  with 
her  oft  and  oft,  to  that  Loving  Presence  which 
has  promised  us  sweet  rest  with  those  we  love 
when  comes  our  call  from  labor  to  refreshment. 

I  have  her  love ,  as  she  has  mine  —  all  and 
complete  on  earth  —  united  as  it  will  be  over 
there  where  there  will  be  no  sex ;  for  those 
who  will  reach  there  will  be  so  blended  and 
united  that  the  perfection  not  ours  to  enjoy  on 


88  The  Beauty  of  Life. 

earth  will  then  be  given  us.  I  have  her  word 
as  she  has  mine  —  her  vows  as  she  has  mine.  I 
fear  no  seducer  or  debaucher,  for  our  love  and 
honor  is  too  perfect  for  anything  to  separate. 
And  thus  we  are  worthy  of  each  other. 

And  worthy  of  the  dear  home  we  have.  Of 
the  good  friends  we  have.  Of  the  happiness 
we  enjoy.  Our  home  may  be  small,  -but  it  is 
our  home.  It  may  be  in  the  city  or  forest,  but 
it  is  ours.  Others'  may  not  love  us,  but  we 
love  each  other,  and  what  more  did  Father  and 
Son  do  while  in  Heaven  together,  or  while 
separated  for  a  short  time. 

And  she  I  love  so  well  may  not  be  the  rich 
est  woman  in  this  world's  goods,  but  she  is  the 
best,  the  truest-hearted,  and  we  are  growing  old 
together,  nearing  our  meeting  in  the  Golden 
Beyond.  She  may  smile  on  others,  but  her 
sweetest  smiles  are  for  me.  No  one  watches 
over  me  as  does  she.  No  one  so  ready  to  for 
give  as  she,  except  it  be  He  who  forgives  us 


-    The  Beauty  of  Life.  89 

all.  The  more  we  do  for  each  other,  the  more 
happiness  we  find  therein  —  for  thus  do  good 
endeavors  come  laden  with  sweet  perfume. 
And  though  I  am  but  a  workingman,  I  am 
very,  very  happy,  for  I  am  content  to  love  as 
Christ  loved  us  all,  and  in  this  contentment 
willing  to  labor,  and  help  make  others  happy. 
As  we  all  hope  to  be  when  the  tired  head  is  pil 
lowed  on  the  mossy  bank  over  there  —  where 
we  will  live  in  the  love  of  our  loved  ones  and 
mingle  with  those  who  on  earth  knew  and 
enjoyed  true  manhood  and  the  society  of  the 
good.  May  we  all  live  here  so  that  we  may 
enjoy  the  pure  after  there  comes  to  us  golden 
dawn,  which  soon  will  come,  following  the 
blessed  Heaven-opening  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ONLY   A   WIDOW1. 

lO-NIGHT  we  stood  in  front  of  a 
house,  watching  a  woman  at  work. 
The  curtain  not  quite  down,  but  we 
could  look  in  and  see  a  woman  at  work.  One 
of  God's  toiling  millions  here  at  her  task  long 
after  nightfall.  Had  she  known  we  were  there, 
she  might  have  thought  us  impertinent  —  but 
we  did  not  mean  to  be  so  ! 

She  swept  the  floor — no  carpet  thereon. 
She  set  the  chairs  in  place  —  shoved  a  little 
table  to  one  corner  of  the  room.  Then  she 
stopped  before  a  glass  to  smooth  her  hair  back 

from  a  brow  that  seemed  to  us  fair,  but  sor- 

90 


Only  a    Widow.  91 

row-lined.  Then  she  stirred  up  the  fire, 
took  a  lamp  from  the  mantle,  and  set  it  on  a 
little  table  close  by  a  sewing  machine,  and  soon 
was  at  work,  although  it  was  three  hours  past 
sundown  this  Saturday  Night,  as  she  worked 
and  we  watched. 

"Hello!  is  that  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  are  you  standing  so  still  for?" 

"  Looking  at  that  woman  — you  can  see  her, 
look  under  the  curtain. " 

"Only  a  poor  wridow  at  work  —  what  sense 
in  looking  at  her?  Come  along  —  I'm  going 
your  way." 

And  so  we  reeled  up  our  thread  of  thoughts, 
and  walked  homeward  to  the  little  room  where 
we  sit  to  write  this  chapter,  and  wait  to  say 
good-by  to  the  week,  for  we  shall  never  see  it 
again,  and  would  part  friends. 

Only  a  widow ! 

And  is  not  that   a  volume?    You  who   see 


92  Only  a    Widow. 

only  a  widow  at  work,  see  not  the  hundredth 
part.  We  see  a  woman  whose  life  may  have 
been  happy — may  have  been  miserable.  If 
happy 

She  had  a  home.  She  was  loved  and  petted 
and  cared  for  and  protected  and  caressed  by 
one  who  was  dearer  to  her  than  all  others. 
She  was  one  who  to  his  manly  keeping  had 
confided  her  love,  her  heart,  her  affection,  her 
life.  To  aid  him  who  is  now  mourned  was  her 
delight.  To  care  for  him  —  to  welcome  him 
home  from  toil  —  to  watch  by  and  over  him 
in  sickness  —  to  lighten  his  load,  minister  to 
his  wants,  and  make  him  proud  of  her,  happy 
with  her,  earnest  and  manly  through  her,  was 
her  great,  noble,  God-given  mission. 

We  looked  back  to  the  days  when  she  gave 
her  heart  and  herself  wholly  to  him.  To  the 
time  when  the  two  started  out  as  young  voy 
agers  on  the  sea  so  full  of  wrecks.  We  saw 
him  bending  to  kiss  her  —  holding  her  to  his 


Only  a   Widow.  93 

heart  —  smoothing  back  the  hair  from  her  fore 
head —  looking  'way  down  the  mystic  depths 
of  those  loving  eyes,  into  the  heart  all  his 
own  —  sitting  side  by  side,  palm  in  palm  — 
resting  his  tired  head  on  her  bosom,  or  hers  on 
his  —  kissing  her  and  calling  her  his  darling. 

And  we  saw  the  years  fading  as  they  fol 
lowed  the  vapory  weeks  down  the  vale  of  time. 
And  age  leaving  marks  and  furrows  on  their 
brows,  as  occupants  of  cradles  came  to  bind 
them  still  closer  in  love  and  life.  And  we  saw 
with  what  pride  she  looked  on  him ;  good, 
true,  noble,  loving,  kind-hearted  man  and  con 
siderate  husband ;  affectionate  and  honest 
parent,  setting  good  examples,  as  he  would 
make  of  his  sons  and  daughters  men  and 
women. 

And  we  saw  the  house  growing  in  its  attrac 
tions  —  friends  calling  to  enjoy  their  hospitality 
—  the  walls  being  covered  with  pictures  —  the 
rooms  everywhere  adorned  with  articles  of  lux- 


94  Only  a    Widow. 

ury,  taste,  comfort,  and  convenience.  We  saw 
their  home  becoming  happier  as  they  learned 
how  little  the  world  cared  for  them  and  how 
much  they  cared  for  each  other  —  how  happy 
were  they  together,  how  nervous,  uneasy,  and 
lonely  when  separated.  How  she  watched  for 
his  corning  —  greeted  "him  with  a  kiss  —  how 
he  held  her  to  his  heart  and  rested  from  his 
labor  in  her  loving  presence. 

Then  we  saw  her  watching  over  his  sick  bed 
—  her  heart  in  fear,  tears,  agony,  and  then  they 
told  her  he  was  dead  —  and  then,  like  a  dream 
went  her  life  of  happiness,  and  she  was  at  sea, 
alone,  hopeless,  heart-wrecked,  living  on  the 
floating,  tear-wet  memories  of  the  happy  past. 
The  good  ships  parted  company  before  the  gol 
den  shore  was  reached  —  she  is  left  to  sorrow 
and  to  sink  —  to  labor  and  to  repine  —  to  strug 
gle  through  the  waves  of  affliction  with  her 
weary  load  till  death  comes  to  her  relief. 

Only  a  widow  I 


Only  a    Widow.  95 

Great  God !  As  if  that  were  not  enough. 
And  you  all  speak  unkindly  of  her,  as  if  his 
death  were  her  crime  !  You  shut  her  out  from 
employment  —  you  compel  her  to  work  for  pen 
nies  where  you  pay  others  dollars  —  you  take 
delight  in  giving  her  work,  and  cheating  her 
out  of  her  scanty  pay  —  you  deem  it  Christian 
ity  to  torture  and  overwork  her,  for  she  is  only 
a  widow ! 

If  her  heart  from  its  despair  turns  to  the  light 
of  kindness  and  loving  words  —  if  she  smiles  on 
one  who  speaks  kindly  to  her  —  if  she  dares 
raise  her  eyes  from  the  grave  of  her  lost  one, 
the  young  and  old  alike  sneer  at  her,  for  she  is 
only  a  widow.  And  she  struggles  on  with  won 
drous  heroism.  She  cares  for  her  little  ones. 
She  does  her  duty.  She  takes  still  closer  to 
her  heart  the  little  ones  he  left,  and  then  you 
blame  her  for  loving  her  first-born  —  the  ones 
who  are  warmed  by  the  sunlight  of-  olden  mem- 


96  Only  a   Widow. 

ories  of  him,  no  matter  how  changed  her  life 
may  be. 

God  love  all  the  widows  —  all  who  have  lost 
their  loved  ones  —  all  who  are  sorrowful  of  heart 
for  those  who  sleep  here  to  waken  just  over 
yonder  !  "We  love  the  earnest  men  with  wives 
and  little  ones,  who  strive  to  live  loving,  use 
ful  lives.  We  love  the  men  who  labor,  and 
plan,  and  take  care  of  their  homes  and  earnings, 
that  their  widows  and  their  children  may  not 
come  to  want  and  be  driven  from  sorrow  to 
suffering  all  the  years  to  come.  "We  love  the 
men  who  are  kind  to  the  widows  —  the  women 
who  care  for  them  and  speak  kindly  to  them  — 
the  society  which  gives  them  employment  and 
good  pay  —  the  men  who  love  their  wives  well 
enough  to  care  for  them — to  provide  them  with 
a  home,  as  every  man  does  and  will  do  who 
really  loves  the  woman  of  all  others  he  pro 
fesses  to  love  most.  We  love  the  man  who, 
reading  this,  thinking  of  the  past  and  of  his 


"  On  the  bed  lay  the  little  girl  we  cauiu  to  see."— 6'«  iiatje  90. 


Only  a   Widow.  97 

loved  ones,  dare  deny  himself  dissipation,  and 
dare  labor  earnestly,  that  his  wife  may  love 
him  better  hero,  and  his  widow  may  not  suffer 
should  he  be  first  called  to  rest,  leaving  her  a 
load  of  sorrow  to  bear  from  his  Eternal  morn 
till  her  final  Saturday  Night. 
7 


CHAPTER  IX. 


PATIENT   IN    SUFFERING. 


HOME  weeks  ago  one  of  the  men 
working  in  our  office  told  us  of  a 
little  girl  who  the  day  before  had 
fallen  down  stairs  and  broken  her  hip.  Said 
he:  — 

"It  is  too  bad,  for  she  was  such  a  playful 
little  romp,  and  her  mother  is  too  poor  to  care 
for  her  as  she  should  be  cared  for." 

So  we  went  out  with  him  one  night  after  the 
day's  work  was  done.  Down  a  narrow  street, 
turning  here  and  there  —  into  a  cross  street 
swarming  with  noisy  children,  dogs,  cats,  and 
jostling  humanity.  Then  into  a  little  alley  be- 

98 


Patient  in  Suffering.  99 

tween  two  brick  houses  —  into  a  little  back 
yard  or  area  lined  by  house  walls  —  up  the 
back  stairs  one,  two,  three  flights — into  a  lit 
tle  half-furnished  room. 

Only  one  room,  not  twenty  feet  square. 
Two  windows  looking  out  into,  and  down  upon 
the  contracted  area  or  yard.  Not  a  bit  of  car 
pet  on  the  floor  —  one  little  ten-cent  picture  (a 
little  girl  playing  with  a  kitten)  on  the  wall  — 
a  little,  old,  cracked  stove  in  a  corner,  with  a 
stew-pan  thereon,  in  which  a  bone  was  being 
boiled.  A  rude  bedstead  stood  in  the  oppo 
site  corner,  three  old  chairs  and  a  three-legged 
table  standing  against  the  wall,  marked  the 
comforts  of  this  "home."  By  the  table,  work 
ing  by  the  light  of  a  small  kerosene  lamp,  sat 
a  middle-aged  woman,  making  blue  overalls, 
while  on  the  bed  lay  the  little  girl  we  came  to 
see. 

"  And  here  is  where  you  live?  " 
"Yes,  sir  —  we  try  to  live  here." 


100  Patient  in  Suffering. 

"  How  is  the  little  one  to-night  ?  " 

"Just  about  so,  sir.  She  suffers  a  good 
deal." 

"  She  bothers  you  about  working,  does  she 
not?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  don't  mind  that." 

"  How  many  hours  a  day  do  you  work  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  am  up  as  soon  as  it  is 
light,  and  I  work  all  day  till  everything  is  still 
on  the  streets  ;  about  midnight,  I  think,  sir." 

"What  rent  do  you  pay  for  this  room?  " 

"Two  dollars  a  week,  sir." 

"  How  much  do  you  earn  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  sixty  cents  a  day.  But  since 
Annie  has  been  sick  I  can't  earn  more  than  fifty 
cents,  and  some  days  not  that." 

"You  can't  lay  up  much,  then?" 

"  No,  sir.  It  is  hard  work  to  get  along. 
"When  Annie  is  well  she  makes  some  days  ten 
cents  selling  papers,  and  if  it  is  too  rainy  to 
sell  papers  she  sweeps  the  crossings." 


Patient  in  Suffering.  101 

"  How  much  does  she  make  rainy  days  ?  " 

"Some  days  nothing.  Some  days  a  few 
pennies.  Once  a  man  gave  her  a  dollar,  and  I 
got  her  a  new  dress  with  it,  and  some  shoes  at 
a  second-hand  store.  Once  a  lady  gave  her  a 
half  a  dollar,  but  such  things  don't  happen  very 
often." 

"  Have  you  a  husband  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir  —  but,  sir,  he  only  comes  here  to 
sleep,  and  sometimes  does  not  come  at  all. 
Sometimes  he  is  here  to  supper  and  to  break 
fast —  sometimes  he  comes  here  when  he  is 
sick." 

"  Don't  he  help  support  you  ?  " 

"  Not  now,  sir.  He  used  to,  but  he  don't 
now,  sir.  He  takes  what  money  Annie  makes, 
and  goes  off  with  it  when  I  don't  have  a  chance 
and  take  out  part  of  it,  and  then  he  scolds  and 
swears  at  me." 

"  What  does  he  do  for  a  living  ?  " 

"  Nothing,    sir.      He   goes   around ;  I  don't 


102  Patient  in  Suffering. 

know  where.  He  is  off  with  somebody,  and 
drinks  a  good  deal,  sir.  Sometimes  he  don't 
come  home  for  a  week." 

"  Do  yon  love  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir  —  I  did  love  him  once,  but  it 
seems  a  long  while  ago,  sir  —  when  we  lived  in 
Harlem,  and  began  to  keep  house,  and  when 
Annie  was  born.  But  he  is  not  now  as  he  was 
then,  sir.  Then  he  was  good,  and  never  struck 
me,  sir." 

"  He  does  not  strike  you  now,  does  he  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,  sir,  but  not  often.  Only  when 
he  is  in  liquor.  Two  weeks  ago  he  struck  me 
with  a  chair  because  I  did  not  have  anything 
for  him  to  eat,  and  I  was  lame  a  good  while  so 
I  could  not  lift  Annie,  but  it's  most  well  now." 

And  she  showed  us  a  long,  greenish-looking 
bruise  on  her  left  shoulder,  yet  painful  to  the 
touch. 

"  Don't  he  help  take  care  of  Annie  ?  " 

"No,  sir.     He  scolded  when  she  fell  down 


Patient  in  Suffering.  103 

stairs,  and  said  she  was  careless.  And  that  is 
all  he  does." 

"  Has  lie  been  home  to-night  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  not  yet.  Pie  may  come  any  min 
ute." 

"Let  us  see  about  the  little  one.  How  old 
is  she?" 

"  Eight  years  last  July,  sir." 

Then  we  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  rickety 
bed  and  looked  at  the  little  girl.  A  pale, 
feverish,  little  bundle  of  nervousness  and  ach 
ing  pains.  She  lay  in  bed,  a  bundle  of  old 
rags  under  her  head  —  the  jet  black  hair  in 
striking  contrast  with  her  pale  face.  An  old 
shawl  was  thrown  over  her  as  she  lay  there 
helpless,  her  eyes  looking  at  us  as  we  have 
seen  lambs  look  when  waiting  the  knife  of  the 
butcher.  We  felt  her  wrist  —  it  was  hot,  and 
the  pulse  was  unsteady.  Her  brow  was  hot 
with  nervous  fever.  A  coarse  undcr-garmcnt 
revealed  the  half-starved  anatomy  before  us,  as 


104  Patient  in  Suffering. 

she  seemed  to  say  —  "  Please  sir,  I  can't  help 
being  poor,  for  my  father  don't  love  me  !  " 

We  looked  into  her  eyes  till  the  tears  came 
—  till  the  lashes  over  hers  closed,  and  she 
turned  her  little  head  to  the  wall,  while  the 
tears  trickled  down  her  face. 

"  Annie  !     Look  here,  little  one." 

Slowly  she  turned, — 

"Please,  sir,  I  didn't  mean  to  cry,  but  your 
hand  felt  so  good  on  my  head,  and  I  was  think 
ing  if  papa  would  only  do  so,  it  wouldn't  hurt 
me  so  much  to  be  sick,  and  to  see  poor  mamma 
working  all  the  time  so  hard/' 

And  the  tears  rolled  one  after  another  down 
more  than -one  cheek  in  that  little  room  —  that 
mockery  of  "  home  ! " 

"What  do  you  want,  dear?  Tell  us  what  to 
get  for  you." 

"  I  want  to  be  well,  so  I  can  help  my  mother  ! " 

Was  ever  answer  so  eloquent?  Who  says 
the  children  of  the  poor  arc  not  near  to  God  ? 


Patient  in  Suffering.  105 

How  else  could  such  Christ-like  sympathy  find 
its  way  from  heart  to  lips  even  of  little  patient 
sufferers?  And  God  make  that  reply  the 
bridge  over  which  this  little  one's  father,  and 
other  little  ones'  fathers,  can  walk  to  return 
from  the  belt  of  desolate  dissipation  to  the 
noble  love  of  honest,  earnest  manhood. 

"  I  want  to  be  well,  so  I  can  help  my  mother!  " 
By  the  power  given  us  under  the  golden 
shadow  under  which  we  write  we  will  burn  that 
sentence  in  letters  of  fire  around  the  rim  of  the 
glass  that  father  sends  to  his  lips  so  often,  and 
open  his  eyes,  never  to  be  closed,  to  the  tear- 
wet  prayer  of  his  child  — 

"Iwant  to  be  well,  so  lean  help  my  mother!" 
"Well,  dear,  you  shall  soon  be  well.     And 
your   mother   is    already   helped.     Your  love 
helps   her.     Now  tell   us  what  you  want   be 
side." 

" Shall  I  tell  you  just  what  I  want? " 
"Yes,  just  what  you  Avaut." 


106  Patient  in  Suffering. 

"  I  want  some  lemonade,  for  it  will  taste  so 
good!  Can  I  have  some?" 

"Why,  God  love  you,  little  one  —  you  shall 
have  all  you  want  —  enough  to  swim  in."  . 

"When?" 

"  When  ?  Eight  away  —  soon  as  we  can  get 
it." 

"And  may  I  have  an  orange,  too,  sir?" 

"  Yes  —  a  dozen  of  them." 

She  drank  of  the  lemonade,  ate  an  orange  — 
a  great  big  luscious  one  —  and  after  we  had 
bathed  her  face,  and  neck,  and  little  hands  and 
arms  with  a  sponge,  wet  with  Cologne  water, 
she  lifted  her  face  a  little,  put  her  lips  to  ours, 
her  arms  about  our  neck,  and  whispered  :  — 

"I do  tliank  you,  sir!" 

We  have  heard  the  wildest,  grandest  thun 
der  of  Heaven,  while  sitting  out  in  the  storm 
to  enjoy  the  terrific  grandeur  of  the  burst,  the 
rumble  and  the  flash  which  seemed  to  dance  its 


Patient  in  Suffering.  107 

zig-zag  waltz  on  our  very  eyelids  —  we  have 
heard  the  thunders  of  brass  and  steel-mouthed 
artillery  —  have  heard  the  death-shrieks  of 
those  suddenly  called  to  their  final  account ;  but 
that  simple  whispered  "  I  thank  you,  sir,"  from 
the  lips  of  that  father-neglected  little  sufferer, 
rises  high  above  the  storm,  the  thunder,  the 
shriek,  and  is  heard  even  now  as  we  write  this 
simple  chapter  of  fact  without  effort  or  attempt 
to  polish,  adorn,  or  beautify. 

It  cost  but  little  to  make  her  happy.  A  few 
kind  words.  A  little  money  saved  from  fool 
ish  extravagance  that  we  might  do  good  there 
with  when  came  the  chance  and  demand.  We 
might  have  bought  a  bottle  of  wine,  or  treated 
half  a  dozen  boon  companions,  and  thus  helped 
win  fathers  and  husbands  from  their  love  of 
home  ;  but  there  would  have  been  no  pleasure 
in  that,  and  not, one  bit  of  good  accomplished. 

And  we  think  of  this  little  patient  sufferer  — 
of  the  thousands  all  over  the  land  —  we  can 


108  Patient  in  Suffering. 

but  feel  thankful  that  wo  have  manhood  enough 
to  take  care  of  our  strength,  and  care  for  those 
we  love.  There  are  women  all  over  the  land 
—  women  who  have  homes,  little  ones  they 
may  be,  but  homes,  and  playful  children,  and 
loving  husbapds.  Yet  they  are  not  contented, 
though  a  million  times  better  off  than  many. 
There  arc  little  children  and  big  ones,  dissatis 
fied  with  what  they  have,  when  they  are  kings 
and  queens  compared  to  poor  little  Annie,  who 
never  utters  a  word  of  complaint. 

And  there  are  men  who  once  loved,  and  car- 
ressed,  and  cared  for  their  home  ones  —  who 
even  now  are  good  and  kind  at  heart  —  who  do 
not  know  how  their  home  ones  love  them,  and 
pray  for  them,  and  long  for  their  sober,  loving, 
protecting  presence  —  who  are  too  good  to 
throw  themselves  away,  and  leave  those  who 
love  them  to  the  chance  care  of  strangers. 

And  so,  little  ones,  who  read  this  true  story 
of  a  little  crippled  girl — think  if  you  are  not 


Patient  in  Suffering.  109 

better  off  than  she.  You  have  a  home  —  lov 
ing  father  and  mother  —  some  one  to  love,  and 
to  love  you  —  and  no  drunken  father  to  rob 
you  of  pennies,  as  little  Annie's  father 
robs  her  of  the  money  she  earns  by  sweeping 
the  streets  on  rainy  days,  that  the  rich  who 
cross  may  not  soil  their  silks  or  their  boots. 
And  when  you  see  poor  little  children,  use 
them  well,  and  be  kind  to  them,  and  share 
your  good  things  with  them.  Then  they  will 
love  you,  and  you  all  will  be  better.  • 

And  you,-  good  woman,  when  tempted  to 
scold  and  find  fault  with  your  lot,  think  if  you 
are  not  better  off  than  the  woman  of  whom  we 
write. 

And  you,  our  brothers  —  for  we  all  are 
brothers,  after  all  —  look  at  your  family,  and 
thank  God  that  jrou  have  manhood,  and  the 
strength  to  care  for  your  loved  ones,  as  they 
will  care  for  you  when  comes  the  time.  A  nd 
when  you  see  a  weak  brother  struggling  to 


110  Patient  in  Suffering. 

rise,  help  him.  Stand  by  him.  Encourage 
him.  Give  him  employment  —  at  least,  kind 
words,  and  then  we  will  all  of  us  be  better  .and 
happier  when  the  work  of  the  week  —  the  bat 
tle  of  life  be  ended,  and  we  can  rest  from  labor, 
thanking  God  for  such  rest,  and  for  the  bless 
ings  which  follow  the  good  resolves  of  Satur 
day  Night. 


CHAPTER  X. 


WHY   SHE   DIED. 

HIS  Saturday  Night  the  clouds  hung 
dark  and  heavy  over  the  sun,  as  at 
times  they  will  over  the  stoutest 
heart.  Drops  of  rain  came  pattering,  then 
blindly  driving  against  pane  and  ledge.  Then 
came  a  wild,  shrill,  whistling  dirge  —  the  clouds 
lifted  and  rolled  away  to  reveal  the  stars  and 
the  blue  —  the  Heaven  and  our  Angel  watch 
ers. 

Storms  do  not  last  alway.  Herein  is  hope 
for  all.  Many  a  bright  ray  —  many  a  gentle 
breeze  —  many  a  cooling  whisper  of  the  winds 

before  will  come  another  ending  of  the  week, 

ill 


112  Why  She  Died. 

so  we   will   labor   contentedly,  and   enjoy  the 
beautiful   when  it  conies. 

To-night  as  we  sat  to  write  there  came  to  us 
a  strange  crowd  of  faces  and  forms  from  the 
beautiful  Eternal.  Faces  we  have  known  — 
the  face  of  our  Guardian  Power,  with  others. 
The  blue  of  the  picture  above  us  is  filled  with 
them,  and  they  will  speak,  so  we  listen.  .  .  . 
.  .  .  A  form  bear  they  with  them.  .  .  . 
A  heart-wrecked,  pale,  hungry-souled  sufferer. 

.     .     The  face  is  pale  but  at  rest. 
Yes,   we    did    know    her   this    side    the    Great 
River.     We   shall   know  her   over   there  with 
others  who  are  purified  by  such  agonized  sufifer- 
ing  as  the  world  little  recks  of.     .     .     . 
.     .     .     She  is  telling  us  her  story  —  the  his 
tory  of  a  life.     The  poison  marks  are  upon  her 
lips,  for  thus  she  took  her  life  in  her  hand  and 
reached  its  load  of  blistering  agony  back  to 
God.     .     .     .     We  will  tell  you  as  she  told  us 


Why  She  Died.  113 

—  as  she  whispered  it  to  us  this  night  from 
over  there. 

"Years  ago  —  O,  so  many,  for  the  road  has 
been  long — years  ago,  when  I  was  a  young, 
trusting,  innocent  girl  —  a  child  in  knowledge, 
he  came.  He  sought  me  out  to  ripen  his  love 
on  my  young  charms.  He  came  with  such  low- 
toned,  earnest  words,  I  loved  him.  I  believed 
in  him.  His  was  a  haughty,  imperious  nature, 
so  they  told  me  —  a  temple  of  honor.  I  feared 
and  loved  him.  It  was  a  strange  charm  he 
threw  over  me  —  not  so  much  over  my  heart  as 
my  senses.  He  blinded  me  with  promises. 
The  fires  of  love,  as  I  thought,  burned  so 
deeply  in  his  eyes  that  I  read  the  road  to  hap 
piness  by  the  wondrous  light  thereof. 

"  He  covered  me  with  gifts.  He  came  with 
love-tokens.  He  bought  me  keep»akes. 

"  He  stole  me  from  myself,  and  buried  me 
under  fancied  obligations. 

"  He  knelt  before  me  —  he  plead   with  me 


114  Why  She  Died. 

till  my  heart  gave  way,  and  to  his  ardent  woo 
ing  1  answered  'Yes.'  Then  we  were  mar 
ried.  They  said  God  joined  us  together  !  O, 
strange,  unnatural  mating  !  I  became  his  — he 
said  I  was  all  his  !  Then  I  was  happy.  One 
by  one  the  old  friends  went  their  way  to  other 
loves.  Avenue  after  avenue  —  source  after 
source  of  that  which  gave  life,  interest,  and 
pure  enjoyment,  he  closed,  lest  I  might  wan 
der  from  him.  .  .  .  Was  he  afraid  of  me  ? 
"  Afraid  to  trust  one  who  before  God  had 
vowed  love,  constancy,  and  fidelity? 
Not  all  at  once,  but  little  by  little.  Here  he 
shut  a  gate.  There  he  erected  a  wall.  Over 
there  a  hedge.  And  thus  he  turned  me  from 
the  old  scenes,  the  old  friends,  the  old  memo 
ries.  He  said  I  was  his  !  He  said  our  home 
was  his.  He  said  I  might  some  time  be 
tempted  —  he  took  from  me  my  confidence  — 
he  drank  in  all  my  soul  —  he  carried  me  each 
day  in  his  hard,  hot,  closed  hand,  and  only 


Why  She  Died.  115 

opened  it  when  he  wanted  to  toy  with  me  to 
rest  his  fancy  or  cool  his  blood. 

"  But  he  was  a  noble  man  —  the  world  said. 
He  was  not  a  drunkard  —  he  was  not  a  coarse, 
profane,  vulgar  man,  careless  of  rights  or  opin 
ions  of  others.  He  attended  church  —  he  wore 
good  clothes  —  he  went  in  good  society,  so- 
called.  He  took  me  to  his  home.  It  was  a 
little  palace.  He  put  carpets  under  my  feet. 
Books  on  the  tables  and  shelves.  Pictures  ou 
the  walls.  He  pointed  to  the  doors  and  told 
me  to  breathe  fresh  air !  He  pointed  to 
windows  and  told  me  to  look  out  and  learn 
wisdom  !  He  pointed  to  the  couch  whereon  we 
slept  and  told  me  to  await  his  coming  —  to  fold 
him  to  my  embrace  as  was  my  duty.  I  obeyed 
in  all  things,  for  I  had  promised. 

"  When  others  were  by,  he  smiled,  and 
talked,  and  joked,  and  boasted,  and  looked 
wise.  He  praised  me  before  others,  and  I 


116  Why  She  Died. 

smiled.  He  dressed  me  in  the  best,  as  he  did 
his  horse.  He  fed  me,  as  he  did  his  dog.  He 
gave  me  work  to  do  —  it  was  done.  He  bade 
me  entertain  his  friends  —  of  mine  own  I  had 
none,  except  with  the  long  agone.  Others 
said  I  was  happy  !  .  .  . 

"  But  when  we  were  alone  !  His  words  were 
cold,  heartless.  He  was  master — I  was  slave. 
He  commanded  —  I  obeyed.  His  words  were 
cold — his  manner  heartless  —  his  blood  hot  — 
his  delicacy  of  thought,  of  touch,  of  expres 
sion,  of  care  was  blunted,  deadened,  poisoned 
by  those  whose  embrace  gave  him  excitement. 
But  the  world  said  I  was  a  happy  wife  ! 

"My  children  learned  to  fear  him.  They  read 
my  heart,  but  I  did  not  wrsh  them  to.  They 
shrank  from  his  coming.  They  came  to  me 
and  wept.  Then  he  was  master  and  tyrant. 
The  kind  hours  he  once  gave  me  went,  never 
more  to  return.  I  had  none  to  go  to  —  not  one. 
He  withdrew  me  from  others  to  feast  on  me 


Why  She  Died.  Ill 

at  leisure.  His  words  often  and  often,  and  often 
were  cruel,  bitter,  biting,  heart-wounding 
words.  But  he  cared  not.  Perhaps  I  was  not 
perfect.  I  could  have  learned  from  him,  but 
he  would  not  be  my  teacher.  When  I  was 
sick  he  was  brutal.  He  came  to  me  at  night, 
and  drank  in  of  my  electricity,  till  all  the  life  I 
had  was  gone  and  on  it  he  grew  strong.  He 
mixed  with  crowds  till  his  vital  energies  cried 
for  succor,  then  came  to  me,  absorbed  all  I  had 
and  stood  with  renewed  power  over  my  pros 
tration  ! 

And  this  was  my  life.  Not  a  desire  in  com 
mon  !  Not  a  wish  born  of  united  hearts  !  Not 
such  a  life  as  he  had  promised,  or  I  had  pic 
tured.  In  fact,  it  was  not  a  life,  but  a  great, 
destroying,  heart-crushing,  murdering  agony  ! 

"  If  he  had  only  spoken  kindly  to  me  !  If  he 
had  only  told  me  to  go  from  him,  and  seek 
more  congenial  nature.  If  he  had  only  let  me 
die  when  I  was  so  often  sick  in  heart  and 


118  Wliy  She  Died. 

body  I  If  he  had  only  abused  me  in  company, 
and  been  kind  to  me  when  alone,  in  our  home, 
in  our  room  —  I  could  have  wept  with  delight, 
and  worshipped  him.  But  he  cared  nothing  for 
me.  I  was  wan  and  worn. 

"What  was  life  to  me?  I  saw  other  homes 
happy.  I  saw  other  men  kind,  and  good,  and 
gentle,  and  high-minded.  I  saw  poor  men, 

0  !  so  kind  to  their  wives,  that  I  hated  the  fur 
niture  of  my  home  —  I  grew  tired  of  the  mock 
ery  of  life  —  I  learned  the  lesson  he  gave  me 
and — and — -  and  —  yes,  I  almost  hated   him! 
But  I  would  do  no  wrong  to  him.     I  was  true, 
if  he  was  .not.     I  hoped  to  win  him  back  to  me. 

1  hoped  to  hear  his  loving  Avords  once   more. 
But  then  I  did  not  know,  as  I  know  now,  that 
love  once  flown  is  gone  forever  ! 

"  One  day,  when  weary,  very,  very  weary 
of  life,  1  longed  for  death  —  for  that  rest  which 
of  itself  was  heaven.  I  wept  over  the  buried 


Why  She  Died.  119 

happiness  of  the  past.  I  sighed  for  the  days 
of  long  agone,  and  tried  to  still  my  heart  as  it 
contemplated  the  terrible  mockery  of  life 
which  had  been  my  lot.  Hope  I  had  none. 
Pic  who  once  was  all  in  all  to  me  was  nothing 
—  lon<r  since  outgrown  his  unsettled  love. 

O  O 

Perhaps  I  had  made  him  miserable.  Perhaps  I 
had  driven  him  to  unkindness.  How?  When? 
God  might  know  —  I  did  not !  lie  lived  for 
no  purpose  other  than  to  be  master,  and  to 
point  to  me  as  Ms. 

"At  last  —  at  last !  Weary,  O,  so  weary  of 
life !  Tired  of  waiting  for  death.  Heart- 
wrecked  and  weary  of  feasting  on  ashes  —  with 
a  prayer  for  him  I  once  loved  —  with  a  soul- 
blind  influence  over  me  as  it  came  from  the 
shadow  of  his  unkindness,  I  looked  —  I  swal 
lowed  the  key  which  opened  the  portals  of 
Eternity  and  shuddered  at  what  I  had  done  ! 

I  slept.    And  such  a  sleep  !    I  dreamed 


120  Why  She  Died. 

of  the  hours  of  childhood  —  of  girlhood  —  of 
wifehood  !  And  I  wished  —  O  !  so  earnestly 
wished  that  he  would  give  me  kind  words  as 
once  —  that  he  would  pity  the  ruin  he  had 
made  —  that  he  would  be  the  lover  as  of  old. 
And  then  I  thought  of  the  road  over  whose 
stony  track  I  had  walked  —  of  the  mockery  of 
life  I  had  lived  —  of  the  terrible  past  and  its 
great  agonies  —  and  —  then  a  pitying  angel 
came  and  kissed  the  poison  from  my  lips  — 
held  me  to  her  heart — looked  upon  me  with 
her  tear-wet  face  as  she  sorrowed  over  nrv 
troubles.  ...  I  was  in  strange  worlds. 
For  a  moment  there  were  tears,  then  came 
smiles,  and  looks  of  hope  filled  with  joy.  . 
.  It  seems  so  strange  there  are  no  unkind 
words  here.  Soon  I  will  be  stronger  than  now, 
and  then  I  will  wa^k  the  golden  side  of  the 
Beautiful  River  to  welcome  those  who  come 
here  for  rest.  And  I  will  hold  them  to  my 
heart,  even  with  such  tender  love  as  you  would 


Why  She  Died.  121 

the  darling  so  dear  to  you,  and  kiss  the  poison 
from  their  lips  and  from  their  heart.  .  ; 
But  I  could  not  wait  till  I  had  told  you  of  this, 
so  they  came  —  all  these  dear,  good,  God- 
hearted  spirits,  bearing  me  on  their  love  to 
speak  with  you.  And  to  tell  you  that  we  Who 
were  crushed  on  earth,  but  who  now  rest  in  the 
Eternal  Garden,  are  building  out  a  point  of  re 
membrance-land  from  shore  to  shorten  the 
journey,  and  the  sooner  welcome  all  who  on 
earth  are  good,  and  kind,  and  loving,  and  who 
will  rest  with  those  they  truly  love,  when 
comes  to  life  its  Saturday  Night." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE    BEAUTY   OP    BETTER   WORK. 


is  something  proudly,  grand 
ly  noble  in  being  a  workingman. 
There  is  to  us  unspeakable  beauty  in 
labor  ;  in  being  able  to  trace  letters  on  the 
pure  white  paper  before  us,  to  put  our 
thoughts  in  line,  and  to  know  that  by  work  we 
have  made  words,  sentences,  paragraphs,  arti 
cles,  papers,  books.  And  to  watch  others  at 
work. 

The  shoemaker  fashions  from  leather,  with 
bits  of  wood  and  little  threads,  the  shoe  which 
covers  and  protects  the  foot  of  a  woman,  while 
his  neighbor,  turning  from  the  hot  fire  of  the 

forge   to  the  cold  surface  of  the   anvil,   with 

122 


The  Beauty  of  Better   Work.          123 

sturdy  blows  oft  and  oft  repeated,  fashions  and 
finishes  his  work  for  the  foot  of  a  horse. 
Each  are  workingmen  —  each  accomplishes 
something,  and  the  world  is  the  better  for 
their  being  here. 

The  pioneer,  with  gleaming  ax,  tramps  his 
way  into  the  forest,  sends  deep  the  glittering 
steel  into  the  astonished  timber.  The  birds  fly 
in  affright.  The  echoes  of  his  blows  run 
through  the  forest  aisles,  warning  the  wilder 
ness  to  stand  back  before  the  triumphs  of 
labor.  The  tree  falls.  It£  limbs  are  cut  away 
from  the  trunk.  Looking  up,  its  fall  left  a 
little  opening,  through  which  we  see  the  blue 
sky  beyond.  Again  does  the  ax  cut  its  way  — 
another  tree  falls  —  a  cabin  is  lifted  into  shape 
—  an  opening  is  made  in  the  forest,  a  home  is 
established  there  —  in  time  there  is  a  farm,  a 
pretty  house,  with  happy  hearts  to  gather  by 
the  hearth  and  fender  —  and  that  man  has  been 


124          The  Beauty  of  Better   Work. 

of  use  to  the  world.  God  bless  him  —he  is  a 
worker. 

The  plowman  follows  the  opening  furrow 
day  after  day  till  seed-time  has  gone  —  then  he 
reaps  the  reward  of  his  toil,  and  beholds  the 
golden  grain  which  comes  from  the  soil,  the 
air,  the  rain,  the  light,  the  heat,  to  repay  his 
efforts,  and  tell  him  how  glorious  it  is  to  labor 
and  to  achieve.  That  man  is  a  worker,  a 
benefactor. 

Over  there  is  a  poor  boy.     Coarse  his  garb 

—  earnest  his  eye,  intelligent  his  face.     Just 
now  he  is  an  apprentice.     Day  after  day  he 
works  over  the  scraps  of  iron  —  over  the  forge 

—  the  lathe,  the  vise.     He  uses  the  file  and  the 
hammer.     His  eye  reaches  farther  and  farther 
into  the  hidden  mysteries  of  science,  till  at  last 
he    is    a   mechanic,   well  skilled  in  his  trade. 
Bee  him  now  at  work.     The  boy  has  gone  — 
the  earnest  man  is  before  us.     He  is  at  work, 
directing  others,  imparting  knowledge,  helping 


Tlie  Beauty  of  Better   Work.          125 

to  create.  A  beautiful  engine  or  piece  of 
machinery  is  before  him.  It  is  his  work  — 
created  out  of  material  other  workmen  had 
finished  in  their  line.  Proud  should  our  nation 
be  to  call  such  men  her  children. 

There  is  a  glory  in  work  when  by  it  we  can 
achieve  success  or  win  the  prize  of  honorable 
reward.  No  matter  whether  that  work  be  in 
the  mine  or  the  forest,  on  the  water  or  the 
land,  in  the  pulpit  or  the  sanctum,  in  teaching, 
or  in  protecting  interests,  hearts,  or  innocence. 

There  is  a  man  who  is  a  worker.  He  loves 
a  girl.  He  is  all  care,  love,  attention,  and 
politeness.  He  is  to  her  what  God  is  to  the 
Christian  —  the  Hope  of  Life.  And  she  is  to 
him,  if  good,  and  kind,  and  loving,  and  in  life- 
harniouy  with  him,  a  golden-lined  pathway, 
outside  of  whose  sacred  boundaries  he  cannot, 
he  will  not  walk.  Witness  the  glorious  record 
this  worker  is  making.  lie  builds  around  a 
home — he  builds  within  one.  He  weeds  his 


126          TJie  Beauty  of  Better   Work. 

acts  and  thoughts  and  words  as  a  careful  man 
does  his  garden.  He  cuts  down  and  pulls  up 
the  rough,  the  thorny,  the  rank-growing  and 
beauty-killing  weeds  —  he  keeps  back  the  cross 
words,  the  rough,  coarse,  vulgar,  profane  ex 
pressions,  till  no  more  do  this  troop  of  devils- 
down  seek  admission  to  his  heart,  for  it  is  each 
day  more  and  more  filled  with  the  good,  the 
pure,  the  loving.  He  works  to  subdue  him 
self  from  the  wilderness  of  nature  once  so 
beautiful,  now  so  weed-grown,  and  become  a 
good,  loving,  loved,  useful  man. 

His  work  brings  success.  His  home  is  each 
day  more  attractive.  His  darling  grows  into 
his  heart  as  fragrance  into  the  rose  before  us, 
placed  there  by  loving  hands,  that  the  eye, 
when  raised  from  the  paper,  might  rest  on  the 
beautiful.  He  feels  a  pride,  a  strength,  a  glo 
rious  heart-rest,  which  those  who  are  not  ear 
nest  heart-workers  never  know.  Ours  is  not  a 


The  Beauty  of  Better   Work.          127 

world  of  chance.  It  is  the  result  of  plan  and 
labor. 

If  we  live  but  chance  lives,  we  float,  sink,  and 
are  lost.  If  we  strive  to  bo  men,  we  can  all 
succeed.  If  we  neglect  our  Avork,  be  it  to 
govern  ourselves,  to  make  others  happier,  or  to 
bring  form  and  power  out  of  elements,  we  but 
leave  the  bucket  with  water  to  quench  our 
thirst  half  way  up  the  well,  to  fall  back  when 
we  let  go. 

Thousands  upon  thousands  of  men  who  arc 
now  unhappy,  might  be  contented  and  full  of 
heart-rest,  if  they  would  only  work.  Not 
alone  to  build  houses  but  to  soften  hearts.  To 
help  the  poor.  To  make  others  happy.  We 
love  the  workers  —  for  they  point  to  their  work 
when  comes  the  nightfall,  and  truth  says  they 
lived  to  a  purpose. 

If  we  work  to  beautify  our  hearts,  to  keep 
them  rightly  attuned  —  preserve  our  manhood 
—  others  will  follow  our  example  when  they 


128          The  Beauty  of  Better   Work. 

know  how  happy  such  work  makes  the  man, 
the  woman,  or  the  child,  and  we  shall  thus  be 
come  such  perfect  workmen  that,  in  the  beau 
tiful  Land  of  the  Leal,  we  shall  rest  not  in 
mind,  but  in  heart,  and  be  with  the  near  and 
dear  ones  all  the  Eternal  Day  which  follows 
the  soon-coming  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE   LIGHT   ON   THE    SHORE. 


an  hour  has  passed  since 
we  bade  the  widow  and  three 
little,  fatherless  mourners  "  Good 
bye,"  and  then  walked  slowly  homeward,  think 
ing  of  those  we  love  ;  of  the  beautiful  flowers 
kind  hands  to-day  so  nicely  arranged  on  our 
desk  ;  of  the  weeping,  starving  mother  who 
this  morning  called  to  see  if  we  could  not  in 
fluence  a  pardon  for  an  erring  child  in  prison  — 
of  the  home  of  poverty  we  visited  this  after 
noon  —  of  the  funeral  we  attended  —  of  the 
past  and  the  present  of  one  who  mourned,  and 
of  the  happiness  which  is  ours  to  know  that 

9  129 


130  The  Light  on  the  Shore. 

we  have  such  true,  loving,  earnest,  heavea-lit 
eyes  to  smile  upon  us  —  such  good  friends  to 
sustain  us,  and  such  a  glorious  work  as  is  ours 
to  be  engaged  in. 

And  though  it  is  Saturday  Night  —  though 
all  the  week  we  have  worked  each  day  from 
morn  till  midnight  —  though  we  are  very 
weary,  we  are  happy  to  know  that  during  all 
the  years  of  strife,  toil,  and  bitter  trials,  we 
have  preserved  our  manhood  and  saved  our 
strength  for  good. 

Perhaps  before  comes  another  Saturday 
Night  we  may  be  called  to  our  rest  here  and 
our  work  there.  ..O  !  will  it  not  be  glorious  to 
go  home,  and  be  with  the  loved  watchers  and 
the  ones  who  so  often  and  often  led  us  into  that 
wondrously  beautiful  future,  where  every 
flower  is  more  fragrant  than  the  rose,  and  every 
act,  thought,  and  deed  born  of  that  golden, 
mellow,  hallowed  love,  which  kindles  continu 
ally  the  glory  of  the  Eternal ! 


The  Light  on  the  Shore.  131 

Soon  we  will  come,  golden-haired  watchers 
"and  waiters  who  so  often  troop  down  to  the 
brink  of  the  river  we  are  sometimes  so  near 
across,  and  then  we  will  rest  and  listen  to  the 
continuation  of  the  wondrous  chapters  you  are 
so  kind  as  to  tell  us  when  others  little  dream 
where  our  thoughts  are  resting  or  mind  roam 
ing.  .  .  . 

To-night  we  have  been  almost  Over  the 
River.  We  have  seen  a  few  cross  safely  to  the 
golden  sands,  but  he  whom  we  buried  to-day 
was  not  with  those  ive  know  await  our  coming, 
and  who  so  often  smile  on  us  by  day  and  by 
night.  We  looked  for  him,  but  he  was  not 
there.  We  asked  if  such  an  one  had  passed 
that  way.  And  they  who  line  the  other  bank 
shook  their  heads  and  said  they  were  looking 
not  for  him,  but  for  the  ones  he  left  to  mourn 
—  for  the  broken-hearted  mother  and  the  three 
little  ones  he  had  left  to  test  the  bitter  charity 
of  the  world  and  to  starve  in  neglect. 


132  The  Light  on  the  Shore. 


He  died  Thursday  night.  We  buried  him 
to-day.  Once  he  was  our  playmate.  Oiice 
with  him  we  built  castles  in  the  air  and  roamed 
the  hills  together.  Long,  weary,  heart-marked 
years  ago.  He  was  richer  than  we  in  boyhood. 
He  had  friends  who  were  wealthy,  and  could  do 
as  he  pleased.  He  was  a  favorite  at  parties 
where  we  could  not  enter.  He  was  gay,  light- 
hearted,  attractive.  But  sometimes  we  thought 
him  selfish  ;  too  proud  and  overbearing  —  too 
careless  of  the  feelings  of  others. 

One  day  he  told  us  not  to  be  so  familiar  in 
chatting  with  a  girl,  for  he  loved  her.  And 
she  such  a  sensitive,  delicate  little  thing.  We 
looked  at  him  with  wide-opened  eyes.  He 
simply,  yet  authoritatively  said  "  Yes,"  and  that 
was  law.  What  could  weakness  do  against 
strength  when  the  heart  was  dumb,  numb,  and 
so  wondrously  quiet?  Answer,  you  who  can. 


The  Light  on  the  Shore.  133 

One  day,  sitting  in  the  shade,  we  saw  tears 
in  her  eyes.'  She  rested  her  hand  in  the  one 
that  now  guides  the  -pen  to  this  writing,  and 
looked  into  our  face  with  a  waiting  look,  as  do 
those  who  now  watch  all  .about  us.  We  were 
tempted  to  tell  her  something,  when  a  step  was 
heard  —  a  voice  called  her  —  she  arose  and  left 
us.  Her  hand  has  not  been  in  ours  since. 

.  .  .  One  day  they  were  married.  It 
seems  but  yester  eve.  But  since  yester  eve  all 
those  lines  where  grief  is  encamped  could  not 
have  gathered,  so  we  know  it  Avas  years  ago  ! 
She  asked  us  to  her  wedding,  but  we  had  not 
time  to  go.  The  minister  pronounced  them 
man  and  wife. 

Then  he  ordered  the  wine,  and  he  joked  with 
those  assembled.  And  he  drank  the  health  of 
each  guest,  and  of  his  bride,  and  to  his  absent 
friends.  And  he  ordered  the  servants  to  do 
this  and  that.  And  he  ordered  a  carriage  —  he 
ordered  her  to  get  ready  to  ride  —  he  ordered 


134  The  Light  on  the  Shore. 

her  to  tell  them  good-by  —  and  he  ordered  the 
driver  to  go  ahead. 

One  day  she  came  to  us  —  but  who  would 
have  known  her?  How  years  do  mark  the 
faces  of  those  whose  hearts  are  bruised  !  He 
had  lost  all.  Dissipation  had  ruined  him. 
For  years  he  had  come  and  gone  with  scarce 
a  thought  of  others  than  himself.  His  pleas 
ure.  His  enjoyment.  His -life.  His  power. 
His  selfishness.  The  little  ones  who  came  — 
the  little  patches  of  sunshine  which  came  to 
brighten  her  home,  feared  and  knew  not  what  it 
was  to  love  him.  When  he  came  they  were 
silent;  when  he  commanded  she  obeyed. 
Men  said  he  was  coarse,  vulgar,  profane,  self 
ish,  intolerant  and  unforgiven.  But  perhaps 
they  did  not  know.  She  never  said  so. 

When  weary  he  would  go  home  to  rest. 
When  drunk  he  would  go  home  to  become 


TJie  Light  on  the  Shore.  135 

sober.  And  he  used  to  curse  her  and  called 
himself  a  roan ! 

When  he  left  his  better  self  his  friends  left  too. 
As  they  always  will  do.  Fortune  closed  her 
hand,  so  he  could  no  more  draw  flowers  from 
her  grasp.  The  lines  on  her  face  —  the  grief  to 
her  heart  —  the  dead  look  to  her  eye,  did  come, 
but  no  word  of  complaint ;  for  the  heart  of  a 
true  woman  is  proud  as  her  grief  is  sacred. 

We  found  him  sick  —  without  friends  — 
without  «ioney —  without  love,  except  that 
unhallowed  kind  which  is  born  of  duty  alone. 
Home  of  his  own  he  had  none  —  it  was  long 
since  gone.  We  found  him  a  wreck.  For 
years  he  had  only  looked  into  the  wine-cup  — 
not  into  the  future.  And  now,  when  we  found 
him  he  could  not,  dared  not,  look  beyond  the 
clouds  before  him.  • 

Once  —  years  ago,  we  almost  hated  him. 
But  not  now.  Once  he  seemed  to  pity  us  be- 


136  The  Light  on  the  Shore. 

cause  we  were  weak.  We  pitied  him  now,  for 
he  needed  it. 

One  night  —  after  the  watch  before  us  beside 
a  vial  of  medicine  marked  the  hour  of  two,  we  sat 
looking  into  the  future,  when  he  turned,  and 
our  eyes  met.  How  glances  will  run  into  the 
past  as  a  keen  blade  thrusting  deeply !  He 
looked  at  the  blankets  on  the  floor  where  she 
and  they  slept,  in  want,  poverty  and  weariness. 
Then  the  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  as  he  reached 
a  little  way  out  from  the  coarse  sheet  which 
partly  covered  him.  Hand  in  hand,  our  hearts 
dropped  back  into  the  fog  of  the  past,  beyond 
its  darkness,  and  into  the  sunshine  of  early  life, 
when,  he  said,  in  tones  so  low,  so  heart- 
wretched  in  utterance  :  — 

"Mark  —  we  were  boys  years  ago.  I  was 
the  stronger  then.  Look  at  me  now.  Very 
soon —  yes,  very  soon  —  and  it  will  all  be  over. 
But  there  is  no  light  on  yonder  shore  for  me  ! 
I  am  lost  —  lost  in  the  fog,  as  once  you  re- 


The  Light  on  the  Shore.  137 

member  I  was  in  the  woods.  She  who  sleeps 
yonder,  I  won,  took  by  force,  for  I  wanted 
none  else  to  have  her.  She  has  been  good  to 
me  —  too  good  for  one  who  —  who — who  lived 

for  himself  alone. It  is  hard  to  go  now 

to  leave her  and  them  to to  pov 
erty  to  want to  distress to  the 

care  of  strangers,  when  I,  who  was  a  man  — 

have  not  left  even  a  penny  or a  good  name 

for  their  support. Won't  you for  their 

sake,  be  good  to  them,  and and  help  them 

sometimes?"     . 

And  very  soon  he  went.  Out  on  the  waves. 
Out  in  the  darkness.  Out  over  bitter  and 
troubled  waters.  Out  in  search  of  the  shore 
where  no  light  beamed  for  him,  for  so  he  told 
us ;  and  if  he  did  not  know,  who  should  ? 
The  cries  and  plaints  of  those  he  left  behind 
will  not  call  him  back,  for  they  will  be  cared 
for,  even  as  we  promised  him  under  the  seal  of 
death ! 


138  The  Light  on  the  Shore. 

And  now,  golden-haired  watchers,  and 
warm-hearted  welcomers  on  the  Eternal  shore, 
will  ye  not  go  up  and  down  till  ye  find  him? 
He  is  there,  somewhere,  for  he  has  gone  from 
us  here.  Perhaps  he  has  not  yet  reached  you, 
for  the  sea  is  wide  to  those  who  have  no  light 
on  yonder  shore,  who  bear  such  heavy  loads, 
and  who  do  not  know  the  way  as  we  do.  But 
he  will  come  when  his  load  is  washed  away. 
Ye  will  know  him.  A  man  once  so  stout  —  so 
mauty  —  so  vigorous  —  so  strong  when  we 
were  weak ;  as  we  were  till  you  threw  your 
wondrous  light  and  golden  shadows  so  full 
upon  us  and  across  our  path.  Ye  will  know 
him  by  his  dissipation-marked  face  —  by  his 
haggard  look  —  by  his  worn-out  nerves  —  by 
his  bankruptcy ! 

Find  him,  if  ye  can,  and  care  for  him,  till 
some  day  or  hour  of  Eternity,  when  those  who 
reach  the  shore,  and  the  light  in  the  East  which 


TJie  Light  on  the  Shore.  139 

so  welcomes,  shall  have  journeyed  far  into  the 
interior,  he  may  be  able  to  follow  after. 

And  good  friends  Over  There,  if  ye  cannot 
find  him  will  ye  not  throw  your  light  into  the 
hearts  of  many  —  O  !  so  many  of  our  broth 
ers,  as  ye  have  in  ours,  that  they  may  see  and 
know  the  way?  And  will  ye  not  breathe 
gentle  rest  and  buoyant  hope  into  the  hearts  of 
all  the  weary  wives  and  neglected  children  of 
the  land  —  into  the  hearts  of  all  who  are  or 
phaned  and  left  on  the  desert  coast  of  a 
drunken  memory,  lest  they  too  be  lost?  And 
good  friends  who  so  smile  upon  us  each  day, 
will  ye  not  fill  with  kind  thoughts  all  who 
would  be  better,  that  there  may  be  a  light  on 
yonder  shore  when  shall  come  to  us  all  who  are 
here  waiting  our  looked-for  Saturday  Night? 


CHAPTEE   XIII. 

BACK  TO   HER   HOME. 

O  you  remember  about  the  poor 
woman  who  came  to  our  office  some 
months  ago,  pleading  with  tear-wet 
face  for  somebody  to  help  find  her  daughter 
who  had  come  to  this  city  to  lose  herself  in  the 
whirlpool  of  dissipation?  We  wrote  about 
her  bringing  a  skeleton — the  sorrow  of  her 
heart  —  to  our  sanctum.  And  her  story  Avas 
this  :  — 

Her  daughter  had  left  the  parental  roof. 
Without  a  chart  or  compass  —  she  had  come  to 
New  York  to  follow  a  life  of  recklessness. 
The  poor  mother  mourned  for  her  darling. 

She  brought  us  her  picture  —  she  told  her  age, 

140 


Back  to  Her  Home.  141 

her  size,  her  peculiarities  of  features,  and 
conversation,  and,  after  we  promised  to  find 
the  wandering  one,  she  returned  with  tear-wet 
face  and  grief-laden  heart  to  her  vine-clad  cot 
tage  in  a  distant  town. 

We  were  to  write  to  her  mother  if  we  suc 
ceeded.  Days  ran  into  weeks — weeks  into 
months.  We  asked  the  chief  of  a  detective 
department  to  aid  us.  No  tidings  of  the  lost 
one. 

One  day,  in  the  workshops  on  BlackweR's 
Island,  where  six  hundred  once  innocent  but 
then  miserable  girls  were  serving  out  their  sen 
tence,  we  saw  a  face  like  that  of  the  photo 
graph  left  with  us.  There  could  be  no  mis 
take.  The  golden  curls  were  gone,  but  the 
face  and  the  eyes  were  unmistakable.  The 
officers  of  the  prison  gave  us  permission  to 
speak  with  her. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Ella  Morgan  !  " 


142  Back  to  Her  Home. 

"  No  —  your  other  name  —  the  one  your 
mother  gave  you?" 

"  None  of  your  business  !  " 

"Come  to  the  window,  put  your  hand  in 
that  one ;  then  look  us  in  the  face." 

"I  obey,  for  I  am  a  prisoner  —  you  wish 
to  humiliate  me  before  all  these  wretched 
people." 

"  Come  to  the  private  office  for  a  few  mo 
ments  ! " 

Downstairs  we  went  to  a  quiet  little  prison- 
like  room. 

"Now  Ella  Morgan  —  look  us  in  the  face  and 
see  if  we  came  to  humiliate  you.  We  know 
your  name  now  —  the  prison  register  tells  us. 
But  your  name  then !  When  you  lived  in  a 
vine- clad  cottage  in  the  country.  When  you 
kissed  your  mother,  and  made  her  happy. 
Your  name  before  you  left  home  one  Tuesday 
afternoon  by  a  train  for  this  city.  Your  name 
when  it  was  — !  " 


Sack  to  Her  Home.  143 

"  O !  for  the  love  of  God  —  don't  speak  it 
aloud  !  Don't  whisper  it  even.  You  know  all 
—  who  are  you  —  what  do  you  want —  why  are 
you  here  —  what  have  I  done  ?  Tell  me  —  O  ! 
tell  me,  and  pity  me  —  kill  me  —  anything, 
but  don't  speak  that  other  name  !  If  you  do 
so  others  will  hear,  I'll  die.  O  !  sir,  don't ! 
For  the  love  of  God  !  don't !  " 

"  Look  us  in  the  face  —  never  mind  the 
tears.  We  do  know  all.  Your  mother  came 
to  us  —  she  wept  like  a  child  for  you  —  her 
poor  heart  is  broken  —  she  is  dying  in  her 
home  out  yonder  for  the  loss  of  her  only  dar 
ling.  She  wants  you  to  come  back  to  her  — 
she  will  never  ask  where  you  have  been  !  " 

"O,  sir,  I  can  not  go  back  !  Anywhere  but 
there  !  To  prison  —  to  torture  —  to  ruin  —  to 
death  !•  But  I  caii  not  — I  will  not  go  home,  to 
be  a  by-word — to  see  my  mother  die  —  to 
know  that  I  have  brought  this  sorrow  on  her, 
as  it  is  in  tenfold  weight  upon  me !  No ! 


144  Back  to  Her  Home. 

Let  me  live  where  I  am  lost  —  lost  —  un 
known  !  O,  good  sir,  please  do  this  —  and 
I'll  be  your  slave !  I'll  work  for  you  —  steal 
for  you !  I'll  be  anything  you  ask  —  do  any 
thing  you  ask  —  find  a  resting-place  in  the 
deepest  dens  of  sin,  if  you  will  only  not  tell 
my  mother — not  force  me  to  go  back  to  her  ! 
I  can  not  again  look  in  her  good  face  ! " 

"  Clara !  look  here ;  place  your  palm  on 
mine;  never  mind  the  tears.  Now  tell  us, 
have  you  one  true,  loving  friend  in  all  the 
world  who  knows  you  only  as  Ella  Morgan?" 

"  No  ;  not  one  !  " 

"How  long  since  you  came  here?" 

O  */ 

"Twenty-five  days." 

"How  long  to  stay?" 

"Thirty  day  sin  all." 

"Well,  you  will  stay  them  here.  And  then 
your  clothes  will  be  given  back  to  you,  in 
place  of  that  coarse  garment  of  serge.  You 
will  come  to  see  us.  Come  with  a  gentleman 


"  JDowu  Htuirs  we  went,  to  a  quiet  little  prison-like  room.'' — bee  page  1-M 


Back  to  Her  Home.  145 

we  will  send  for  you.  Come  in  a  carriage, 
with  the  windows  up,  so  no  one  will  see  you  to 
annoy.  You  come  to  us,  sure.  You  WILL 
COME.  This  is  no  place  for  you!  You  have 
suffered  enough  —  your  future  will  be  brighter. 
Where  are  your  things  —  your  clothes,  etc?" 

"At  No.  —  West  Twenty-sixth  street." 

"  Were  you  there  when  arrested  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  feu-?" 

"  They  said  I  stole  a  man's  watch  while  he 
was  drunk  in  the  parlor,  but  I  did  not.  Some 
one  did,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket  —  I  did  not, 
so  help  me  God  !  " 

"  Well  —  we  never  would  arrest  any  one  for 
stealing  in  such  places.  Let  those  who  go 
there  to  reap  take  their  own  chances.  But 
give  us  an  order  for  all  your  things  —  we  will 
have  them  where  you  will  find  them  when  you 
come." 

"But  — but  I  don't  want  to  !  " 
10 


146  Back  to  Her  Home. 

"Yes,  YOU  do  —  give  us  the  order.  And 
you  will  come.  Somebody  wants  to  see  you. 
Somebody  will  be  happier  than  ever  before  in 
her  life.  You  will  come  —  and  come  gladly  — 
to.  the  dearest  friend  on  earth  —  one  who  loves 
you  —  who  will  ask  nothing  of  your  visit 
here  !  " 

"Yes  —  I'll  come  —  in  four  days  more  be 
sides  this." 

"We'll  await  you.  And  now,  -  ,  not 
Clara  —  good-by  —  God  save  you.  Throw 
the  past  behind  you  —  be  brave  for  the  present 
—  live  for  the  one  who  best  loves  you  for  the 
future  —  come  in  four  days  —  till  then,  good- 


Yesterday  afternoon  she  came,  without  her 
prison  garb,  so  unlike  the  poor  girl  we  saw 
there.  The  middle-aged  woman,  who  for  'an 
hour  had  been  sitting,  standing,  crying,  laugh 
ing,  wralking  the  floor,  never  at  rest,  was  her 


Back  to  Her  Home.  147 

mother,  who  came  to  the  city  yesterday  morn 
ing.  She  wanted  to  know  where  we  found  her 
darling  child.  We  told  her  in  a  large  work 
shop,  or  manufacturing  establishment,  on  the 
east  side  of  the  city. 

We  met  her  at  the  door.  There  Avere  two 
cries  of  joy.  As  we  passed  out  upon  the 
street  for  a  few  moments,  we  heard  sobs  and 
broken  words,  but  no  curses. 

A  few  moments  later  we  found  them  to 
gether  —  the  great  tears  of  joy  rolling  down 
their  cheeks  as  both  arose  to  meet  us. 

The  poor  girl  was  brave  as  a  heroine  of  the 
revolution.  She  told  all  —  told  more  than  we 
did.  For  an  hour  she  sat  and  talked  of  the 
terrible  past.  She  told  how  she  had  longed 
for  the  world  —  how  she  had  given  herself 
away,  never  thinking  —  ho\y  she  thought  she 
was  smart  and  able  to  take  care  of  herself — 
how  she  had  lived  in  dissipation ;  on  excite- 


148  Back  to  Her  Home. 

ment ;  drinking  wiue ;  submitting  herself  to 
that  which  her  soul  abhorred  for  dress,  hating 
herself  the  while.  Then  she  told  of  her  hours 
of  sorrow  —  her  days  of  pain  and  agony  —  her 
bitter  thoughts  —  her  gradual  growing  reck 
lessness —  her  indifference  to  all  save  having  a 
revel,  and  an  hour  of  hilarious  dissipation, 
which  would  bring  sleep  to  drown  thought,  till 
every  voice  of  our  heart  prayed  — 

"  God  pity  the  unfortunate  and  give  them  to 
some  keeping  of  earnest  love  rather  than  this 
living  hell ! " 

The  two  wept,  and  wept.  And  they  laughed 
and  seemed  so  happy  in  being  together. 

A  few  hours  since  they  left  the  city,  and  two 
happier  women  we  never  saw.  The  mother 
sold  her  little  cottage  and  the  two  will  find  a 
home  elsewhere.  The  poor  girl  left  her  ill- 
gotten  wardrobe,  left  all  save  the  keepsakes 
she  brought  from  home,  for  she  could  never 


Back  to  Her  Home.  149 

again  look  upon  the  purchases  made  at  such  a 
fearful  price. 

Fast  as  steam  can  drive,  the  cars  which  bear 
them  are  going  swiftly  away.  The  skeleton 
the  mother  brought  us  months  ago  is  now 
clothed  in  love  and  once  more  perfect,  for  that 
great  Power  which  cares  for  us  as  we  care  for 
ourselves,  has  spoken  peace  to  the  troubled 
heart,  and  she  walks  to  her  salvation.  We  pray 
God  to  keep  them  —  to  care  for  them.  And 

may  the  secret  of  her  visit  never  be  revealed 

• 

to  bring  her  sorrow.  Would  to  God  all  peo 
ple  had  more  charity  for  those  who  fall  —  more 
heart  to  help  them  up  —  more  kind  words  for 
the  erring. 

Happy  days  are  in  store  for  that  young  girl. 
She  has  sickened  of  her  life  on  ruin's  road. 
Somebody  loves  her,  and  will  not  ask  of  the 
past,  but  will  give  to  her  an  earnest  heart  —  a 
true  love  —  a  kind,  loving  home  and  that  heart- 
rest  she  never  knew  while  living  against  her 


150  Back  to  Her  Home. 

womanhood  — against  nature.  It  is  not  what 
we  have  been  but  what  we  are  that  makes  us 
good  or  bad.  And  what  we  will  be  need  not 
worry  us  if  we  labor  for  the  right  all  the  days 
of  the  week  —  guided  by  our  hearts  and  by 
our  loves  through  the  days  of  life  unto  the  last 
and  the  welcome  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DYING   AS   WE   WRITE. 

HIS  Saturday  Night  is  one  of  storm, 
of  rude  fitful  gusts  —  of  dancing 
leaves  —  sharp,  hurricane  whistling, 
and  we  are  very  weary.  All  the  week  we  have 
worked  more  industriously  than  ever  before,  for 
there  is  so  much  to  do  !  Not  till  long  after 
twelve  each  night  have  we  sought  our  resting- 
place  to  gather  strength  for  the  morrow. 

And  not  even  one  little  bit  do  we  feel  like 
writing  to-night,  for  we  are  sad  and  weary. 
Weary  from  overwork.  Sad  from  what  we 
have  seen. 

This  afternoon  we  saw  two  policemen  with  a 
drunken  woman  in  a  handcart.  One  was 

151 


.152  Dying  as   We  Write. 

drawing,  the  other  pushing.  Crowds  followed 
to  gloat  their  eyes  over  misery. 

"Who  have  you?" 

"  One  of  them  !  " 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  Only  drunk." 

"  Going  to  the  station  ?  " 

"  No  —  we  are  taking  her  home." 

"  Where  was  she  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  so  many  questions  !  Come  with 
us  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  her.  She  went 
down  to  Houston  street  and  got  on  a  breeze  — 
was  upset  out  in  the  alley,  drunk,  and  we  are 
taking  her  home." 

Into  a  by-street  —  upstairs  to  a  room  with 
shattered  shutters  —  a  patch  of  carpet  —  a  bed 
—  a  cheap  wash-stand  —  a  scratched  bureau  — 
an  old  trunk  in  a  corner  —  a  little  cupboard 
over  the  mantel  wherein  were  a  few  bottles, 
some  cold  corn  beef,  a  bottle  of  ale,  two  cigars, 


Dying  as  We  write.  153 

a  greasy  pack  of  cards,  and  a  few  little  articles 
of  head-dress. 

The  occupants  of  the  other  rooms  stared  at 
us  as  the  insensible  woman  was  carried  to  the 
third  story  to  the  room  above  spoken  of,  which 
an  old  dame  said  was  hers.  Two  women  dis 
robed  her  while  we  looked  about  the  premises. 
They  laid  her  on  the  coarse  bed,  and  called  our 
attention  to  great  bruises  over  the  ribs  —  over 
the  stomach  —  a  long,  dark  bruise  across  the 
back,  where  some  one  must  have  struck  her  a 
fearful  blow.  And  a  dark,  greenish  black 
spot,  half  the  size  of  our  hand,  just  under  the 
left  breast,  told  us  she  had  been  kicked  there 
by  some  one  terribly  in  auger. 

Very  soon  one  of  the  policemen  returned 
with  a  physician,  and  'then  they  both  went  away 
to  see  who  had  done  all  this.  The  aged,  white- 
haired  physician  with  care  examined  her  — 
shook  his  head. 

" Badly  injured,  doctor?  " 


154  Dying  as  We  write. 

"  Yes  —  internally.       She   cannot  live  long. 
Somebody  lias  nearly  killed  her." 
"Under  the  influence  of  liquor?" 
"Yes —  she  has  been  drinking  very  hard." 
And  the  poor  girl,  or  rather  a   woman   of 
about    twenty-one    or    two    years,    lay    there 
breathing  heavily. 

Her  dark  hair  hung  disheveled  from  a  clear- 
cut  brow.  Her  eyes  were  closed  —  hdr  lips  set 
as  if  in  pain  —  her  heaving,  bruised  bosom  giv 
ing  evidence  of  suffering.  She  did  not  look 
like  a  bad  or  vicious  girl.  Only  unfortunate! 

Her  name  was  Clara  —  so  the  landlady  said. 
She  paid  three  dollars  a  week  for  the  use  of 
the  room.  She  came  and  she  went,  alone  or 
with  company,  and  no  one  knew  when,  where 
from,  or  who  was  with  her.  For  such  is  the 
fashion  in  places  where  no  one  cares  what  be 
comes  of  another.  From  other  rooms  came 
sounds  of  mirth  and  echoes  of  fearful  pro 
fanity,  as  women  in' half  dress  or  tawdry  finery 


Dying  as  We  ivrite.  155 

joked  with  coming  or  departing  guests,  or 
swore  at  each  other.  To  hear  such  words, 
such  slang,  such  thieves'  jargon,  such  vulgar, 
profane,  indecent  words  from  woman's  lips 
made  us  sad.  It  made  us  look  for  a  moment 
on  all  women  as  bad,  yet  we  know  they  are 
not.  Only  when  a  woman  falls,  she  falls 
lower,  and  soon  becomes  more  disgusting  in 
her  misery  and  her  sin  than  man,  for  she  gives 
herself  wholly  to  her  abandon.  Because  she 
has  loved  —  has  lost  —  society  scourges  her 
with 'hot  words  and  lash  of  devilism,  just  as 
society  takes  fiendish  delight  in  torturing  the 
weak  ! 

And  she,  poor  drunken,  murdered  Clara,  is 
dying.  God  pity  her  more  than  man  does. 
"We  do  not  know  who  she  was,  or  what  her 
history.  But  she  is  a  woman.  She  would  be 
beautiful  when  dressed,  but  in  all  her  wardrobe 
was  nothing  beautiful.  There  was  a  little  hat 
with  a  red  feather.  A  Ihrht  white  cloak  or 


156  Dying  (is  We  write. 

jacket.  Some  ribbons  stitched  on  an  old 
dress,  and  she  was  ready  for  the  street  —  for  a 
life  sinful,  hazardous,  awful,  terrible  —  but  yet 
her  life  —  all  there  was  of  it  left  to  her. 

O  !  merciful  Power  !  O  !  Great  One  above 
us'  all !  Pity,  O !  pity  those  who  thus  live 
their  life,  and  drink  the  bitter  dregs  thrown 
into  their  cup  by  hot-blooded,  heartless,  cruel, 
reckless  humanity. 

We  have  seen  her  in  her  pain,  her  agony, 
her  sorrow,  her  death ;  as  we  have  written  this 
simple  fact  chapter.  Dying !  Murdered  by 
scores  of  murderers  !  By  the  one  who  first 
struck  her  down  !  By  the  parents  who  did  not 
guard  her  properly.  By  the  society  and  Chris 
tianity  which  drove  her  forth,  kicked  her  in 
the  face,  branded  her  as  with  a  hot  stamping- 
iron,  seared  her  soul  and  tossed  her  with 
curses,  gibes,  jeers,  and  devilish  malignity, 
into  the  living  Potter's  Field  to  which  those 
who  would  escape  therefrom  are  driven  back, 


Dying  as  We  write.  157 

and  back,  and  back  !  to  their  dregs,  to  their 
death  —  to  their  God's-pity  ! 

Who  she  was  we  know  not.  We  never  saw 
her  before.  Where  was  she  from?  Why 
came  she  here  ?  Was  she  lured  from  her  home 
and  its  protections  ?  Was  she  poisoned  by 
flattery,  love  of  dress,  and  vain  show,  the 
glances  of  men,  the  remarks  on  her  pretty 
face,  hands,  feet,  or  form?  Was  she  be 
deviled  by  seductive  arts  and  man's  higher 
electrical  powers  till  her  soul  fell  —  till  she 
knew  not,  saw  not,  cared  not  for  the  conse 
quences  of  the  one  fatal  yielding  ?  Or  was  she 
driven  out  from  home  by  the  cold,  cruel, 
harsh,  unfeeling,  heart-crushing  treatment  so 
many  men  and  women  give  their  children  by 
the  hearth  and  fender,  all  the  while  thinking  it 
parental  duty  to  harden  rather  than  soften  the 
heart  and  mellow  the  life  ? 

She   was    somebody's    daughter.      Perhaps 
somebody's   sister.      May   be   somebody's   be- 


158  Dying  as  We  write. 

trothcd.  But  now,  O  God!  pity  her  —  take 
her —  keep  her — renew  her  purity  in  the  Land 
of  the  Leal  by  Thy  wonderful  alchemy,  and  give 
her  there  the*  friends,  the  life,  the  happiness 
not  hers  to  enjoy  on  earth. 

Once  she  was  good  and  pure.  Her  infant 
hands  rested  on  the  face  of  a  father  —  the 
bosom  of  a  mother.  Her  little  smile  gave  joy. 
Her  little  lips  kissed  as  sweetly  as  do  the 
lips  of  thousands  whose  fathers  and  mothers 
will  read  this  chapter.  Once  she  nestled  in 
the  arms,  and  in  the  heart  of  somebody.  Lit 
tle  did  that  somebody  know  she  was  to  die 
thus,  or  they  had  rather  she  had  died  in  her 
innocent  infancy. 

Perhaps  she  was  to  blame  for  this  sorrow  to 
some  extent.  But  not  all.  Perhaps  her 
mother,  her  father,  never  tried  to  teach  her. 
Then  they  are  guilty  of  her  murder.  Perhaps 
her  father  was  cross,  cold,  ugly,  dissipated,  and 
neglectful  of  his  duty  as  a  man,  and  as  a  parent. 


Dying  as  We  write.  159 

Thus  teaching  her  that  home  was  not  a  place 
for  happiness.  Perhaps  he  disgusted  her 
young  life,  and  thereby  planted  seeds  for  the 
weeds  that  grow  in  shame  over  the  grave  of  the 
unfortunate.  Perhaps  he  was  coarse,  rough, 
brutal,  unfeeling,  and  thus  drove  her  forth  to 
wander  in  bitterness. 

Perhaps  he  himself  died  a  poor  victim  to 
dissipation  and  threw  his  loved  ones  upon  a 
cruel  world,  not  to  be  supported,  but  tempted, 
tossed,  trampled  upon,  and  driven  to  anything 
for  that  life  which,  but  for  the  love  we  all  have 
of  life,  had  better  be  lost !  How  many  thou 
sands  of  loving  ones  have  been  thrown  into 
temptations  from  cold,  unfeeling  homes,  where 
cross  words,  bitter  words,  unloving  words ; 
bare  floors,  bare  walls,  and  lack  of  comfort 
have  steeled  the  heart  and  fitted  it  to  risk  any 
chance  rather  than  endure  torture  ! 

But  she  is  dying.  Poor,  bruised,  heart- 
wrecked,  murdered  one!  Some  may  -say, 


160  Dijing  as  We  write. 

tf  Good  enough  for  her  !  "  For   shame !      Are 

c? 

hearts  thus  cruel  born  of  God  or  devils  ? 

Look  upon  your  loved  ones  and  tell  us  if 
you  would  curse  them,  should  they  fall  by  the 
way  when  too  weak  to  walk  !  And  see  if  yo  u 
cannot  save  your  own,  and  help  save  others. 
If  they  fall  help  them  up  again  and  be  kind  to 
them.  Pity,  but  do  not  condemn,  for  it  may 
be  you  will  condemn  the  one  who  is  not  to 
blame  !  And  then  who  will  be  the  most  guilty  ? 

Soon  they  will  bear  her  away.  No  one  will 
weep  over  her  grave.  A  cheap  funeral.  No  one 
will  wonder  where  she  is  — why  she  comes  not. 
She  will  not  be  seen  on  the  streets  with  that 
wild,  hunted,  horror  look — but  some  one 
else  will  take  her  place.  The  little  room  will 
be  let  for  three  dollars  a  week  to  some  one 
else.  The  bed  where  is  dying  the  bruised  girl 
will  soon  be  cleared  of  its  burden  —  the  sheets 
spread  smoothly  —  her  little  keepsakes  over- 


Dying  as    We   Write.  161 

hauled  and  thrown  away,  and  no  one  will  miss 
her. 

God  love  those  who  are  good  —  and  those 
who  are  striving  to  do  right  —  who  are  true, 
and  kind,  and  loving  to  each  other.  Let  us 
forgive  and  forget  the  little  spots  of  the  past, 
as  God  will  forgive  us  all  our  life-blotches. 
Let  us  do  anything  rather  than  drive  the  heart- 
wrecked  ones  to  death,  or  to  that  dissipation  in 
unloving  recklessness  which  leads  thereto. 

Then  come,  loved  one,  closer  and  still  closer 
to  the  lips,  the  love,  the  arms  which  will  pro 
tect  thee,  and  the  heart  which  loves,  and  so 
let  all  our  hearts  and  lives  be  filled  with  such 
goodness  and  charity,  as  will  make  us  who  are 
but  mortals  not  forget  that  others  are  mortal ; 
tempted  and  unprotected,  not  strong.  For  if 
we  have  not  charity,  how  will  others  have  tears 
or  charity  for  us  when  comes  to  earthly  life  its 

rest  and  final  Saturday  Night? 
11 


CHAPTER  XV. 


HOME,  AND  WHY  IT  IS  HOME. 

E  built  a  castle  in  the  air !  All  the 
years  of  our  life  were  we  building 
it.  Some  there  were  who  laughed 
at  us  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Let  those  laugh  who 
wiu.  And  so  to-night,  as  we  sit  by  the  table 
in  our  little  home,  not  man  nor  monarch  is 
half  so  happy  as  we. 

Years  ago,  when  the  heart  was  hopeful,  we 
looked  ahead  to  the  time  when  we  might  have 
a  happy  home,  and  beautiful  worlis  of  art 
therein  on  which  to  rest  the  eye,  as  the  beau 
tiful  queen  of  the  home  would  rest  our  heart. 
But  how  should  we  have  all  this,  and  when? 

162 


Home,  and   Why  It  Is  Home.         163 

By  work  —  whispered  the  spirit  of  pluck,  and 
so  we  learned  to  labor  and  to  wait.  And  so 
we  have  worked  these  many  years  —  always 
contented  and  hopeful.  Content  to  labor,  hop 
ing  to  enjoy  the  reward,  as  do  all  who  are 
creative,  and  thus  fit  to  work  Over  There  for 
the  completion  of  the  wondrous  revealment. 

Ours  now  is  a  beautiful  home.  Here  we  are 
happy  and  content.  These  walls  we  helped 
build.  Not  that  we  piled  high  the  brick,  iron, 
stone  and  marble  one  above  the  other,  or 
helped  drive  the  nails.  But  we  worked  at 
something  else,  and  earned  to  pay  for  this. 
And  now  "we  £re  very,  very  happy,  and  never 
a  man  so  stout  of  heart.  Work  does  not  tire 
us,  for  we  see  the  result  and  reward  earnest 
work  does  bring. 

This  little  place  we  call  home.  And  the 
beautiful  pictures  on  the  walls  all  about.  The 
carpet  on  the  floors,  so  we  can  walk  while  our 
darling  sleeps  just  there  —  so  we  can  rest  our 


164    Home,  and  Why  It  Is  Home. 

left  hand  on  her  brow,  and  not  waken  her,  for 
she  is  weary,  perhaps.  The  chairs,  the  tables, 
the  sofas,  the  ottomans,  the  easy-chairs  —  the 
books,  musical  instruments  and  all  these  scores 
of  beautiful  things  in  the  room,  we  earned ! 
They  are  ours.  Honestly  ours.  Never  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  robbed  of  a  single  penny  for 
their  obtaining. 

It  is  glorious  to  work.  Little  by  little  we 
have  won  all  these  by  honest  toil.  And  we 
have  put  them  together  —  and  here,  sur 
rounded  by  'what  we  have  earned,  and  cared 
for  by  the  one  we  love,  we  are  happy.  And 
strong  to  create  or  to  earn  more  —  to  help 
others  —  to  encourage  the  good  —  to  draw 
sword,  if  need  be,  in  defence  of  virtue,  the 
•widow,  and  the  fatherless. 

We  pity  those  who  have  no  homes,  who 
have"  no  happy  homes,  where  life  passes  in 
love,  contentment,  and  enjoyment  of  perfect 
confidence  in  each  other.  We  pity  those 


Home,  and  Why  It  Is  Home.         165 

whose  lives  are  wasting  away  in  dissipation, 
till  they  will  enter  the  Eternal  so  wasted  and 
unimproved  that  they  will  be  but  specks  on 
the  floors,  so  to  speak.  And  we  pity  all  who 
are  not  happy  —  who  are  not  mated  and  in 
unison  of  feeling  one  with  the  other  —  who  do 
not  feel  it  a  joy  to  live  for  and  with  each 
other ;  for,  after  all,  this  is  the  true  life,  which 
is  but  the  germ  of  Love  Eternal.  For  those 
who-  cannot  love  each  other  here  and  have  sym 
pathy  with  all,  are  not  guided  aright. 

It  is  very  still  out-of-doors  to-night.  It  is 
near  midnight,  still  our  work  is  not  quite  done. 
That  is,  we  cannot  sleep  yet,  nor  can  we  bear 
to  waken  the  dear  one  who  slumbers  just  be 
side  us.  So  wre  let  her  rest.  She  has  been 
such  a  help  to  us.  Has  cared  for  us  so  kindly 
and  with  such  tenderness,  as  Mary  cared  for 
Him  she  so  loved  while  He  was  on  earth. 
When  we  are  sick  and  prostrate  from  over- 


166        Home,  and  Why  It  Is  Home. 

work,  how  like  a  ray  of  light  from  Over  There 
does  she  come  with  careful  whispers,  gentle 
touch,  sweet  breath  and  absorbing  solicitude  to 
watch  over  and  care  for  us  ! 

How  carefully  she  closes  the  blinds  and 
draws  the  curtains  to  exclude  the  light  while 
we  sleep  !  How  well  does  she  remember  the 
most  minute  item  of  instructions  given  by  the 
good  physician,  who  also  comes  to  lend  his  aid 
and  skill ! 

And  when  the  pain  blinds  our  eyes,  and 
nearly  sets  us  wild,  how  her  soft  fingers, 
gently  passing  over  throbbing  temples  and 
fever-heated  brow,  will  quiet  the  little  devils 
in  the  burning  blood,  and  teach  them  obedi 
ence  to  her  will !  It  is  she  who  opens  and 
closes  the  door  so  noiselessly,  and  makes  her 
self  again  our  saviour  for  the  continuation  of 
the  work  we  know  it  is  our  duty  to  perform 
here  to  be  fitted  for  Over  There. 

Yes,    this    is   our    home.     And    she    is    our 


Home,  and   Why  It  Is  Home.         167 

darling.  Perhaps  you  do  not  like  her  ;  we  do. 
Perhaps  you  love  her.  Not  so  well  as  we  do. 
You  may  think  her  beautiful.  So  she  is ;  but 
to  one  who  has  studied  life,  there  is  no  beauty 
like  that  of  her  pure  mind  and  God-given  in 
tellect.  You  may  not  think  her  beautiful. 
You  do  not  know  her  —  her  pure  life  —  her 
confiding  love  —  her  sympathy  and  generous 
willingness  to  aid  us  in  all  that  will  make 
others  happy  or  alleviate  suffering.  You  do 
not  know  how  happy  she  makes  our  home  — 
how  she  cares  while  we  labor ;  how  she  be 
lieves  in  us  and  thus  puts  it  upon  our  honor  to 
be  good  and  true ;  how  her  heart  goes  out  to 
those  who  are  needy,  in  distress,  unfortunate. 
She  is  sleeping  now.  Never  a  babe  sleeping 
more  sweetly.  A  smile  on  her  face  even  yet 
—  this  hour  and  more  there  resting,  as  the 
hand,  so  soft,  so  fair,  so  full  of  kindness  even 
in  its  sleeping  touch,  resting  so  temptingly 
where  Ave  can  reach  it  in  a  moment.  We 


168         Home,  and  Why  It  Is  Home. 

know  she  is  happy,  and  do  wish  that  all  the 
women  in  the  land  were  as  happy  as  is  she. 
When  comes  the  hour  for  rest,  then  come  we 
to  our  home.  This  makes  it  a  home.  And  a 
man  will  always  be  where  his  heart  is,  and  it  is 
well  that  it  is  so.  She  is  not  afraid  to  trust 
us,  and  does  trust  us  implicitly.  And  so 
trusting,  not  for  all  the  wealth  of  the  world 
would  we  deceive  her,  for  then  would  her  hap 
piness  and  our  happiness  be  gone,  and  regret 
ful  sorrow  be  left  in  its  stead. 

Who  does  not  love  a  happy  home?  Who  is 
there  not  striving  to  obtain  one?  And  who 
does  not  worship  those  who  make  him  happy 
—  even  as  we  worship  God  because  He  has 
promised  us  eternal  happiness?  -And  so  we 
love  her  who  is  sleeping  just  here.  She  is 
very,  very  good  to  us.  To  all  she  is  ever  a 
lady,  never  stooping  to  gossip,  to  slander,  to 
tattling  of  her  neighbors,  never  envious,  but 
always  so  pure,  gentle,  earnest  and  womanly 


Home,  and  Why  It  Is  Home.         1G9 

that  we  cannot  help  writing  of  her,  and  stop 
ping  now  and  then  to  press  light  kisses  on  her 
brow,  and  to  study  the  face  and  the  life  of  our 
darling,  but  for  whom  home  would  not  be 
home  —  life  not  be  life  —  happiness  not  happi 
ness,  and  words  of  promise  perhaps  not  so 
sacredly  kept. 

And  so,  while  she  sleeps  so  beautiful  and  so 
beautifully,  we  pass  this  chapter,  perhaps  the 
very  last  we  can  or  ever  shall  write,  into  a 
tribute  to  home,  and  to  the  pure,  virtuous, 
loving,  noble,  refined  women  of  the  land,  who 
do  so  much  to  make  man  and  home  happy,  but 
who  are  too  often  unappreciated  sufferers  at 
the  hands  and  hearts  of  those  who  have  no 
love  for  the  beauties  of  home  and  the  love 
which  surrounds  and  hallows  it.  May  the  love 
and  care  of  our  good  angels  be  with  all  who 
strive  to  make  home,  no  matter  how  humble  it 
may  be,  happy  as  is  ours  this  finished  Saturday 
Night. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WORKING    AND    WAITING. 

E  knew  it  would  come  ! 
The  best  of  all  the  nights  given  us 
to  think,  to  rest,  to  resolve  —  the 
Saturday  Night.  All  we  had  to  do  with  its 
coming  was  to  labor  earnestly  and  wait  content 
edly.  All  in  good  time,  as  'twas  appointed, 
the  good  night  has  come,  and  now  we  can  en 
joy  the  heart-resting  reward  it  brings,  and  look 
at  the 'picture  on  which  we  have  labored.  A 
week.  A  picture  Avith  seven  ideas  —  each  one 
a  day.  And  so  we  are  all  artists. 

The  week  is  the  canvas.      We  are  the  artists. 
Events  are  the  colors.     When  comes  the  beau- 

170 


Working  and  Waiting.  171 

tiful  Saturday  Night,  this  one  of  our  pictures  is 
finished,  and  is  taken  on  the  breath  of  the 
dying  week,  to  be  looked  at  by  Him  who  is 
Love  and  Power,  and  then  hung  in  the  Great 
Parlor,  or  out  in  the  Rubbish  Room,  as  the 
picture  is  worthy.  Each  picture  will  be  the 
simple  record  of  our  acts.  If  they  be  good  and 
suggestive  of  the  beautiful,  they  will  be  given 
place  with  other  pictures  of  beauty.  If  not, 
.they  will  not  be  hung  where  they  will  mar  the 
scene  or  detract  from  other  beauties.  Over 
There  will  be  two  exhibition  rooms — for  the 
good  and  the  bad.  And  we  shall  look  at  our 
pictures  and  see  wherein  we  failed  or.  suc 
ceeded,  for  time  is  the  pencil  that  to  the  canvas 
of  Eternity  our  every  act  transmits. 

And  so  the  weeks  come  and  go.  Each  Sat 
urday  night  we  pause  to  look  at  our  work 
before  the  midnight  hour  takes  from  the  frame 
the  canvas  whereon  we  have  wrought,  and  a 
fresh  one  for  the  week  to  come  in  its  place 


172  Working  and  Waiting. 

doth  leave !  We  earnestly  try  to  discover 
where  we  have  touched  too  lightly  or  too  heav 
ily.  We  try  to  see  if  we  have  in  the  least 
failed  to  do  strict  justice  with  liberal  tinting 
given  to  all  —  for  we  are  none  of  us  perfect. 

And  let  us  strive,  good  friends,  that  each  Sat 
urday  Night  our  work  may  seem  more  and 
more  worthy  to  be  called  a  picture.  These 
pictures  have  many  defects.  Cross  words. 
Marks  of  reckless  temper,  heated  by  words  of 
others,  which  pain  and  wound.  If  we  each 
week  labor  more  and  more  for  the  poor,  the 
oppressed,  the  weary-hearted  and  overtasked, 
it  seems  as  if  we  were  drinking  deeper  of  that 
pure  water  which  so  takes  away  selfishness  and 
directs  the  soul  to  good  deeds  and  generous 
impulses.  Those  who  are  on  the  right  road 
and  nearing  a  happy  home,  where  loved  ones 
with  outstretched  arms  await  them,  feel  the 
heart  grow  lighter  over  the  lessening  dis 
tance. 


Working  and   Waiting.  173 

And  it  is  so  beautiful  to  have  a  home  —  a 
welcome  —  a  reward  of  love,  to  draw  you  to 
that  rest  so  few  know.  Is  it  not  heaven  to 
know  that  in  all  its  world  there  is  one  spot 
where  you  can  rest  —  one  heart  to  rest  with  — 
one  presence,  as  "that  of  a  God,  in  which  you 
can  bask  and  grow  strong  for  the  race  and  the 
work  of  tho  morrow?  To  feel  that  there  is 
one  to  whom  you  can  go  with  all  your  •troubles, 
'doubts  and  fears  —  one  who  will  listen  to  you 
in  love,  forgivo  and  forgive  again,  if  need  be, 
till  manhood,  ashamed  of  its  weakness,  is 
purified  to  strength  by  love  protected.  A 
home  on  earth  to  which  we  can  come  and  find 
one  who  will  listen  to  us  and  lift  us  up,  as  He 
who  is  so  good  will  listen  to  us,  forgive,  and 
throw  about  our  spirits  the  golden  light  of 
pure  life-thoughts,  till  we  shall,  by  our  own 
earnest  efforts  and  His  protecting  direction, 
grow  away  from  that  part  of  our  nature  which, 


174  Working  and   Waiting. 

unchecked  and  uncontrolled,  holds  us  to  the 
earth  and  to  misery. 

As  our  home  Over  There  will  be  beautiful, 
so  is  our  home  here,  and  our  work,  and  our 
resting.  As  this  Saturday  Night  has  come,  so 
will  others,  and  then  we  shall  rest  in  happi 
ness.  We  know  it.  For  it  has  been  told  us. 
And  the  same  one  who  has  so  helped  us  here 
—  so  encouraged  and  rewarded  us  by  kind 
words  and  gentle  care  —  will  go  home  with  us 
— -we  may  be  separated  a  little  while,  but  we 
shall  be  united,  never  to  part,  with  no  more 
mortal  experiments,  living,  resting,  rewarded 
for  our  earnest  working  and  continued  con 
stancy  here  by  a  never-ending  life  and  labor 
without  weariness  in  that  Land  of  the  Leal 
whose  Alpha  and  Omega  will  be  Love  and 
Power  Eternal. 

All  this  for  those  who  make  perfect  life- 
pictures  here.  Who  dare  follow  the  great 
light  hung  high  in  the  heavens  for  all  who 


Working  and  Waiting.  175 

dare  look  up  and  follow,  no  matter  what  the 
crowd  may  say.  All  this  for  those  who  dare 
stand  erect  before  man,  bowing  only  before 
the  Holy  Presence.  Who  dare  live  lives  to 
reach,  and  walk  in  paths  by  higher  powers 
directed,  caring  nothing  for  the  criticism  of 
those  whose  Avork  or  pictures  are  no  more  per 
fect  than  our  o\vn  ! 

If  Ave  live  for  the  speech  of  men  here,  we 
do  not  live  for  the  Great  Reward  there,  for  the 
criticism  of  Time  has  no  Aveight  in  Eternity, 
except  through  the  certainty  that  good  deeds 
will  follow  us  as  flowers  bloom  over  graves  to 
mark  Avhere  rests  the  face  after  the  smile  has 
gone,  and  where  molds  the  Avorn-out  tene 
ment  of  the  soul. 

All  in  good  time  reward  will  come.  The 
rivulet  reaches  the  ocean  after  its  race  be  run, 
not  before.  It  sings  on  its  Avay  and  gives  joy. 
It  gives  life  to  Avhat  it  touches,  and  a  home  to 


176  Working  and   Waiting. 

the  beauties  which  live  in  its  waters.  In  good 
time  it  mixes  with  the  waters  of  the  deep,  and 
the  whispered  eloquence  of  the  rivulet  is 
mingled  in  the  great  prayer  to  God  from  the 
depths  of  its  harmonious  life. 

To  fret,  to  scold,  to  worry  ourselves  and 
worry  others,  will  not  add  beauty  to  the  pic 
ture.  Stopping  work  at  noon  will  not  bring 
the  sunset  and  the  proper  hour  for  rest. 
Annoying  others  will  not  make  us  happier. 
Harsh  words  will  not  lighten  our  own  hearts. 
There  is  more  of  life  than  all  this.  If  this 
person  does  this,  or  that  person  does  that,  all 
this  is  nothing  to  our  eternal  effecting,  for  we 
are  judged  and  given  work  to  do  Over  There, 
not  for  our  meddling,  our  fault-finding,  our 
interfering  with  that  which  does  not  concern 
us,  but  for  ability  and  willingness  to  govern 
ourselves  and  work  on  our  own  pictures. 

And  if  our  work  be  well  done  —  if  we  shall 


Working  and   Wailing. 


177 


strive  to  make  only  beautiful  pictures,  happy 
will  we  be  in  enjoying  the  beautiful  rest  which 
will  be  for  all  who  well  and  truly  work  and 
wait  for  the  final  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TRYING   TO    BE    RICH  ! 

[GAIN  goes  a  week  with  its  won 
drous  freight  of  good  and  evil  —  of 
joy  and  sorrow  —  of  life  and  death, 
as  the  wail  of  the  new-born  and  moan  of  tho 
dying  make  the  woof  and  warp  of  our  exist 
ence. 

And  what  a  checkered  life  is  this  at  best  I 
And  how  foolish  are  we  all  to  so  cling  to  its 
labors  and  to  dread  the  coming  hour  of  dissolu 
tion  and  release  from  earth,  which  is  the  prison 
of  the  soul. 

To-night  a  boy  came  to  our  room.  A  pale- 
faced,  studious,  honest-looking  little  fellow  of 

178 


Trying  to  be  Rich.  179 

twelve  years.  We  were  seated  at  the  desk  in 
our  private  apartment,  when  there  came  a 
timid  knock  on  the  door.  Doubting  whether 
any  one  rapped  or  not,  we  bade  a  pleasant  en 
trance,  and  the  little  fellow  stood  before  us. 

.  Now  he  has  gone  out  we  will  tell  our  lit 
tle  boy  friends  about  our  conversation.  This 
boy  who  called  on  us  to-night  was  a  poor  —  a 
very  poor  boy.  He  worked  in  a  kindling-wood 
factory  up  town.  A  place  where  pine  cord- 
wood  is  sawed  into  little  blocks  about  six  inches 
long,  then  split  up  into  sticks  about  an  inch 
square,  tied  into  little  bundles  large  enough  to 
fill  the  crown  of  your  hat,  and  sold  to  be  used 
in  kindling  coal  fires  in  grates. 

His  hands  were  ever  so  hard — just  as  ours 
were  once,  years  ago,  when  we  were  a  poor 
boy  working  on  a  farm,  husking  corn  for  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  per  day.  But  these  were 
happy  days,  for  all  we  were  but  a  poor  boy. 


180  Trying  to  be  Rich. 

They  were  happy,  because  we  tried  our  best  to 
make  them  so. 

His  little  brown  linen  pants  were  too  short 
and  too  small  for  him,  and  his  shirt,  though 
clean,  was  coarse  and  serviceable.  But  the 
clothes  are  nothing.  They  wear  out !  In  think 
ing  of  great  men  we  never  stop  to  wonder  how 
they  were  dressed  —  we  remember  them  by 
their  acts. 

"  Good-evening,  my  little  man.  Will  you 
walk  in  ?  ". 

"Yes,  sir,  if  you  please.  Is  this  Mr. 
Pomeroy,  who  writes  every  Saturday  Night?" 

"Yes  —  come  in  and  be  seated.  Take  the 
easy-chair,  for  you  look  tired." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  very  much." 

"Not  at  all.  What  is  your  name,  and  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  .,  .  . 

"My  name  is  Henry  Stephens,  and  I  didn't 
know  but  you  would  talk  with  me  a  few  mo 
ments  to-night.  I  have  all  summer  wanted  to 


Trying  to  be  Rich.  181 

come,  ever  since  my  mother  died.  And  last 
night  it  seemed  as  if  she  came  to  me  in  my 
dreams  and  told  me  to  come  to  you  to-night, 
and  I  could  not  help  coming,  sir." 

"You  did  right.  Now  what  can  I  do  for 
you  ?  Perhaps  nothing  —  but  we  will  see  — 
How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Twelve  years  old,  sir." 

"  Where  do  you  work,  and  what  do  you  work 
at,  Henry  ?  " 

"  I  pack  up  kindling  for  Mr. ,  on 

Twenty-third  street. 

"  How  much  do  you  earn  ?  " 

"Four  dollars  a  week,  sir." 

"  And  board  yourself?  " 

"I  board  with  my  aunt  for  three  dollars  a 
week  and  washing." 

"  Where  is  your  father?  " 

"He  died  five  years  ago." 

"In  the  army,  or  where,  and  how?" 

"  He  was  hurt  in  a  fight  on  Baxter  street,  in 


182  Trying  to  be  Rich. 

a  place  where  men  were  talking  politics,  and 
he  died." 

"  When  did  your  mother  die  ?  " 

"  Last  winter,  sir  —  the  14th  of  January."      ( 

"Was  she  poor?" 

"Yes,  sir ;  she  worked  by  the  day  in  a  laun- 
dry." 

"  Have  you  much  education  ?  " 

"Not  much;  I  can  read  pretty  good,  and 
write  and  cipher  some,  and  know  a  little  about 
geography." 

"That  is  good.  What  do  you  want  me  to 
do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  to  get  rich  and 
be  good." 

"  That  is  easily  done,  Henry.  Poor  boys  make 
the  richest  and  the  best  men,  as  poor  girls  gen 
erally  make  the  best  women.  Most  all  the  rich 
men  and  the  great  men  in  this  country  were 
once  poor  boys.  They  worked.  And  you  can 
work.  Learn  a  trade.  Learn  it  well,  then 


Trying  to  be  Rich.  183 

stick  to  it  like  a  man.  And  try  to  be  the  best 
workman  of  all.  Do  not  fool  away  time,  for 
time  is  money.  To  build  much  of  a  church 
takes  much  planning,  and  more  work.  If 
you  sit  by  the  roadside  on  a  stone  all  day,  you 
need  not  look  for  it  high  on  the  wall  at  night. 
And  always  be  careful  of  yourself,  your  health 
and  your  reputation.  Save  a  part  of  what  you 
earn  —  if  but  a  penny  a  day.  Be  neat  and 
clean  as  you  can.  You  need  not  be  a  slouch, 
if  you  are  poor.  And,  Henry,  always  keep 
your  temper  if  you  possibly  can,  for  good- 
natured  men  have  the  most  friends,  and  get 
along  the  best. 

"  Try  -to  be  able  to  take  charge  of  the  busi 
ness  you  are  in,  and  when  you  do,  be  careful 
to  advance  the  interests  of  your  employer.  He 
will  respect  you  then  —  advance  your  wages, 
and  do  better  by  you  each  year,  till  at  last  you 
will  become  a  partner,  or  have  enough  money 


184  Trying  to  be  Rich. 

to  start  business  for  yourself.     Work  honestly. 
Have  patience. 

"And,  Henry,  remember  this.  Money  does 
not  make  us  rich.  The  richest  man  of  all  rich 
men  in  the  world  is  he  who  does  the  most 
good,  and  most  loves  the  poor  and  the  unfor 
tunate,"  * 

"My  health  is  not  very  good,  sir." 
"  Then  you  must  take  the  better  care  of  it, 
or  your  dream  of  life  will  never  be  realized." 

• 

"  Sometimes  I  think  it  never  will,  and  feel 
tired  of  trying." 

"We  all  feel  just  that  way  at  times.  But 
the  best  way  is  to  get  over  it,  and  do  the  very 
best  we  can.  And  all  of  us  can  do  more  than 
we  do,  if  we  try  right  hard.  We  can  try  till 
we  die." 

"  I  don't  want  to  flie  ! " 

"AVhy?" 

"Because  I  want  to  live  and  have  a  home 
some  day.  And  I  am  afraid  to  die  !  " 


Trying  to  be  Rich.  185 

"Afraid?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What  an  idea !  Were  you  afraid  to  come 
here  to-night  to  see  me  ?  " 

"JVb,  sir." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  read  your  book,  and  I  knew  you 
would  not  harm  me.  And  my  Sunday-school 
teacher  said  I  could  come  to  you,  and  you 
would  talk  with  me." 

"That  was  right,  Henry.  You  were  not 
afraid  to  come  here.  And  this  is  a  finer 
place  than  your  shop,  with  its  saws,  knives, 
and  slivers.  So  our  Home  in  the  Land  of 
the  Leal,  which  is  called  Home  or  Heaven, 
is  millions  of  times  more  beautiful  than 
this.  And  all  can  enter  who  come  the  right 
way.  And  no  one  there  will  drive  us  out. 
Death  is  no  more  than  opening  the  door 
through  which  you  come  from  a  dimly-lighted 
hall  to  a  brilliantly-lighted  parlor.  Out  there 


186  Trying  to  be  Rich. 

it  is  dark.  There  are  stairs  to  climb  before 
you  reach  here.  And  a  door  to  open  before 
you  can  enter.  Are  you  sorry  you  came  here, 
Henry?" 

"No,  sir  —  I  am  glad." 

"Well,  death  is  no  more  than  the  swinging 
of  that  door.  It  opens  from  darkness  to  light. 
And  when  we  die  we  but  just  begin  to  live. 
It  will  take  us  a  long  time  to  know  all  there  is 
of  Heaven.  But  there  is  One  there  Avho  knows 
and  we  can  learn  of  Him,  for,  Henry,  there  is 
a  God,  who  is  that  great  loving  Power  so  few 
understand  aright. 

"As  we  are  good,  or  strive  to  be  good  here, 
and  to  do  by  others  as  we  would  have  them  do 
by  us,  so  will  we  be  the  happier  Over  There, 
for  in  the  home  of  disembodied  spirits  there 
will  be  degrees  of  happiness  as  here  —  work  to 
do  as  here  —  a  greater  life  to  live  than  here. 
And  there  we  shall  move  with  the  multitude  as 
here,  but  shall  rest  with  those  who  thiuk 


Trying  to  be  Mich.  187 

liberally  and  in  whose  hearts  the  beautiful,  God- 
spoken  principles  of  loving  forgiveness  shall 
have  taken  root. 

"  We  never  shall  be  worse  off  than  here. 
But  some  will  be  happier  there  than  here,  for 
they  will  have  more  to  their  credit  —  will  have 
higher  responsibilities,  they  are  being  fitted  for 
a  grander  work.  The  soul  does  not  die,  for  it 
is  of  the  vital  principle  of  Life  Eternal.  Nor 
will  it  ever  roast  in  endless  fire,  as  once  men 
taught  who  groped  blindly  in  bigotry  and 
superstition. 

"  There  is  nothing  of  death  to  fear.  But  for 
the  pain  of  brief  separation  from  those  we  love 
here,  we  could  even  now  lean  back  in  our  chair, 
rest  a  hand  on  the  desk,  and  sleep  to  awaken  in 
a  better  place  than  this,  as  this  is  better  than  a 
dark,  unfurnished  hall.  We  would  gladly  die, 
this  moment,  except  that  our  work  is  not  yet 
finished,  and  we  would  not  leave  our  loved 
ones  so  long  to  the  care  of  others. 


188  Trying  to  be  Rich. 

"Henry,  as  a  man  looks  over  his  workmen  to 
see  who  of  them  are  the  most  worthy ;  who  he 
will  have  to  do  this  and  to  do  that,  so  does  the 
Loving  Power  look  us  all  over  to  see  who"  He 
will  make  rulers  over  many  things  in  the  beau 
tiful  Land  of  the  Leal.  And  if  we  be  not  ear 
nest  workers  here,  we  shall  deeply  regret  it 
Over  There,  where  the  growth  of  the  soul  is  less 
rapid  if  we  have  not  an  experienced  life  on 
earth. 

"And  so,  my  earnest  young  friend,  be  not 
afraid  of  death.  Better  be  afraid  of  life ! 
Here  we  are  making  a  record  to  be  looked  at 
There.  We  had  better  be  afraid  of  ourselves. 
Remember  that  money  does  not  make  us  rich, 
for  There,  dollars  do  not  count.  Thus  we  have 
told  you  how  to  be  rich  and  good,  as  we  try  to 
be,  and  as  we  hope  all  the  earnest  boys  and 
men  of  the  land  will  be,  with  no  regrets  for  mis 
spent  time  when  shall  come  the  good,  the  beau 
tiful  rest  of  Life's  final  '  Saturday  Night.' " 


CHAPTER  XVin. 


INDEED    A    GOLDEN   REWARD. 

E  did  hope  for  a  rest  this  Saturday 
Night,  all  alone,  with  no  one  to  take 
our  thoughts  from  the  beautiful 
study  of  life,  and  visiting  with  the  good  angels 
who  come  at  times  trooping  all  around  us,  each 
one  suggesting  a  good  thought  and  all  smiling  a 
happy-hearted  approval  to  reward  us  for  honest 
laboring  in  the  vineyard  of  life. 

Have  you  ever  read  of  angels'  visits  ?  Some 
people  say  they  are  few  and  far  between. 
Not  so,  if  we  would  have  them  frequent.  "We 
believe  in  the  visits  of  angels.  Not  the 
looked-for  embodiment  with  wings  and  white 

189 


190  Indeed  a  Golden  Reward. 

raiment,  which  appear  to  wandering  imagina 
tions.  But  the  good  angels,  whose  home  is 
space  —  whose  resting-plaee  is  Over  There  — 
who  live  in  the  yellow  sunlight  of  the  Eternal, 
and  whose  mission  is  to  welcome  There  the 
ones  who  lived  liberal,  noble  lives  here. 

Our  good  angels  never  yet  have  deserted 
us.  Each  year  more  come  —  none  are  missed. 
We  know  many  of  them.  We  can  see  them  as 
plainly  as  the  tracing  on  the  paper  before  us. 
Sometimes  a  troop  of  them  come  to  have  silent 
talk  with  us,  then  away  they  all  go  to  their 
missions.  Some  of  them  go  on  missions  of 
their  own,  as  beautiful  birds  fly  through  the 
air — as  the  spirit  —  the  thought,  annihilates 
space. 

The  pathway  they  go  —  the  way  they 
come  —  is  not  dark  to  us.  It  was  once.  But 
we  have  looked  for  light  and  looked  and 
looked,  till  at  last  it  has  come  to  us.  We 
would  not  stop  looking  till  we  saw,  and  under- 


Indeed  a  Golden  Reward.  191 

stood.  Every  day  these  unseen  visitors  come 
to  us.  They  are  our  friends.  Sometimes  one, 
sometimes  more  are  with  us.  At  times  they 
leave  us  alone,  and  go  away  to  call  upon 
others.  Sometimes  we  send  them  on  errands 
for  us,  miles  away — to  whisper  thoughts  to 
absent  friends.  And  they  come  back  to  tell  us 
what  their  hearts  replied,  and  where  they 
were,  how  looking,  and  how  in  health.  So  we 
are  a  thousand  times  a  day  here  and  there  — 
with  those  who  write  us  letters  —  with  the 
poor  who  often  think  of  us  as  we  do  of  them 
—  with  the  weary  and  the  overworked. 

Sometimes  all  our  good  angels  leave  us  for 
hours,  to  grope  in  the  dark,  as  it  were,  and  to 
feel  sad,  depressed,  unnatural,  as  one  who 
halts  in  a  wilderness,  with  the  night  and  the 
storm  all  about  him,  and  he  in  distress.  Then 
we  make  haste  to  call  for  help,  and  our  spirit 
reaches  forth  and  goes  out  for  the  golden  shad 
ows,  which  brings  us  light. 


192  Indeed  a  Golden  Reward. 

And  they  come.  One  whispers  hope. 
Another  tells  us  to  be  brave  and  truthful,  and 
all  will  be  well.  Another  tells  us  that  the  gold 
en  shore  is  for  our  reaching,  that  we  must  not 
sit  idle,  but  push  on  like  a  man.  Another 
good  angel  comes  and  tells  us  what  others  have 
done  —  another  one  tells  us  who  loves  us  and 
who  is  glad  when  we  are  in  such  heart- 
warmed  company  —  other  angels  go  with  us  to 
point  the  way,  and  show  where  we  must  walk 
and  not  fall ;  and  once  more  we  are  on  the 
road . 

Sometimes,  when  our  good  thoughts  or  good 
angels  come  to  us  not,  dark  shadows  come  over 
us.  Bad  thoughts  and  desires  enter  our  spirit 
temple.  But  light  dispels  darkness,  and  the  good 
triumphs  over  the  bad  as  we  seek  the  light  or 
remain  content  to  grope  in  darkness,  and  to 
sleep  under  this  hedge  or  that  bramble  because 
others  who  do  not,  and  perhaps  do  not  care  to 


"A  well-dressed  man,  more  than  a  dozen  years  our  senior,  entered. 
See  page  1!M. 


Indeed  a  Golden  Reward.  193 

sec  as  we  see,  are  content  to  think  there  is  but 
one  path  to  the  Eternal ! 

And  "that  one  over  thorns,  and  coals,  and 
poisonous  points  of  granite  —  as  if  a  Power 
that  is  Love  Eternal  wants  agony  instead  of 
earnest  manhood  and  good-will  in  the  beautiful 
Land  of  the  Leal. 

We  were  hoping  to-night  that  we  might  visit 
with  our  good  angels,  and  tell  them  how  they 
had  helped  us  all  the  days  of  the  week,  and  ask 
them  to  leave  with  us  each  a  good  resolve  for 
the  week  to  come.  But  it  was  not  to  be. 

There  was  a  pull  at  the  door-bell  down  stairs. 
The  kind  janitor  of  the  building  who  keeps  the 
door  securely  tyled  when  comes  nightfall,  and 
we  are  alone,  came  and  said  a  gentleman  wished 
to  see  us  on  important  business. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"He  did  not  state,  sir,  but  he  said  he  wanted 
to  see  you  a  little  while  to-night." 
13 


194  Indeed  a  Golden  Reward. 

"Show  him  up." 

And  he  came.  A  well-dressed  man  more 
than  a  dozen  years  our  senior.  His  step  was 
firm  —  his  face  clean  and  noble  —  his  eye 
bright.  He  came  forward,  and  reached  out  his 
hand  — 

"  Good  evening,  good  friend." 

"Welcome, — will  you  rest  in  that  easy- 
chair?" 

"  Thank  you,  and  excuse  me  for  this  inter 
ruption.  You  do  not  remember  me?  I  am 
glad  of  it." 

"We  have  met  before.  Your  eyes  are 
pictured  on  my  memory,  but  where  we  have 
met  I  cannot  tell." 

He  continued  — 

"Do  you  remember  seeing  a  poor  drunken 
man  in  the  depot  at  Cleveland  in  1864  —  a  man 

who  was  kicked  like  a  vagabond  do£  for  steal- 

o  o 

ing  an  apple  ?  " 
"Yes." 


Indeed  a  Golden  Reward.  195 

"  Do  you  remember  following  that  man  to  the 
corner  of  the  depot,  outside,  by  the  track,  and 
asking  him  why  he  took  the  apple  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  remember  that  he  told  you  he  had 
eaten  no  food  for  two  days  —  that  he  had  been 
on  a  drunken  spree  —  had  no  more  money  and 
not  a  friend  to  go  to,  and  was  starving? " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  remember  bringing  a  little  pie  and 
a  sandwich,  and  of  saying  a  few  kind  words  to 
that  man  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  me,  now?" 

"Yes  —  I  know  you  to  be  that  man,  for 
whom  I  was  sorry." 

"Well,  sir  —  I  am  that  man.  And  to-night 
I  come  to  *pay  you  for  that  pie  and  that  sand 
wich.  Will  you  accept  this  little  gold  dollar 
as  an  evidence  of  friendship  and  gratitude  ?  I 
ate  the  food  you  gave  me  —  and  ate  no  more 


196  Indeed  a  Golden  Reward. 

till  I  earned  it.  The  taste  of  that  food  was  in 
my  mouth  many  hours,  but  it  was  not  so  sweet 
or  so  nourishing  as  the  kind  words  you  gave 
me,  never  forgotten." 

"  I  have  forgotten  them  !  " 

"Well,  I  have  not,  and  will  tell  you  what 
you  said,  '  Take  this  lunch  and  a  little  courage 
—  then  take  care  of  yourself  and  help  me 
sometime.'" 

"  That  was  not  much  to  say." 

"  It  was  a  great  deal  to  me.  I  looked  at 
you  as  I  ate,  till  you  got  on  the  cars,  and  then 
I  walked  away.  Your  words  gave  me  pluck. 
The  idea  that  I  could  ever  help  you  seemed  ri 
diculous.  Then  I  said,  why  not?  I  walked 
away  from  there  —  walked  out,  away  out  Eu 
clid  avenue,  and  found  a  chance  to  work  five 
days,  helping  a  man  fix  a  barn.  And  I  didn't 
drink  any  more. 

"  Then  I  got  work  in  a  warehouse  for  a 
month.  Then  went  to  Idaho  and  made  money. 


Indeed  a  Golden  Reward.  197 

Two  years  since  I  saw  yon  in  Chicago,  and  re 
membered  your  face.  I  followed  you  till  I 
learned  who  you  were.  Now  my  business 
called  me  to  New  York,  and  I  come  to  tell  you 
that  the  poor,  drunken  vagabond  to  whom  you 
gave  a  few  kind  words  a  few  years  since  is  now 
well  off,  as  the  world  counts,  and  that  I  want 
you  to  take  this  little  keepsake  and  wear  it,  or 
give  it  to  some  other  poor  creature." 

"I  will  accept  it  with  pleasure.  And  keep 
it  as  long  as  I  live,  to  remind  me  that  a  kind 
word  costs  nothing  and  often  does  much  good." 

"Yes,  you  gave  me  food,  and  courage,  and 
something  to  think  of.  I  said  I  would  try  to 
be  kind  to  myself  if  a  stranger  could  be  kind  to 
me." 

"And  you  have  done  well,  have  you?  " 

"Yes,  first-rate.  I  kept  at  work,  and 
saved  what  I  earned.  Went  West  soon  as  I 
could,  and  kept  going  West.  Made  a  little 
money  at  Chcyenue.  Then  I  went  to  mining 


198  Indeed  a  Golden  Reward. 

and  knocking  around  in  Idaho.  Sometimes  it 
was  pretty  blue,  but  I  kept  at  it,  and  now  I  am 
all  right.  Some  day,  when  you  want  a  friend, 
call  on  me  and  I  will  repay  you  for  your  kind 
words,  which  will  never  be  forgotten." 

He  went  away,  and  we  went  to  our  work, 
and  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  reward  which  is 
ours  this  beautiful  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MERELY   OPENING   A   DOOE  ! 

|N  a  little  church-yard  out  from  the 
great  city,  near  our  olden  home,  a 
new-made  grave  marks  a  new  comer 
to  the  city  of  the  dead  since  last  we  sat  to  our 
Saturday  Night  writing. 

A  full-length  grave  in  a  country  church 
yard  ;  just  under  the  shadow  of  the  steeple 
which  rises  above  the  maples  —  under  the 
tremor  of  the  little  bell  up  there  —  out  from  a 
close,  narrow,  cramped  life  into  his  allotment 
of  labor  and  reward  in  the  broad  lasting  Over 
the  River. 

We  knew  him  years  ago.     A  brave,  fearless 

199 


200  Merely  Opening  a  Door. 

youth.  A  noble  man.  There  were  more 
thorns  than  roses  in  the  garden  of  his  young 
life,  but  he  worked  well  and  bravely,  heeding 
not  the  brambles,  but  gathering  the  roses,  till 
he  plucked  many  bouquets  to  gladden  hearts 
and  beautify  homes.  Narrower  than  the  lonely 
chamber  of  silence  in  which  the  form  in  which 
he  once  lived  now  reposes  were  the  ideas 
taught  him  in  the  years  agone.  But  there  was 
in  his  soul  a  desire  for  light  and  truth.  And 
so,  the  growing  wings  of  intellect  beat  against 
the  prison-bars  fastened  across  his  mind's 
vision,  till  at  last  they  broke  down  the  dark 
barriers  of  ignorance,  and  out  in  the  free  air, 
he  rode  over  the  storms  to  survey  the  new  rest 
and  the  new  Home  so  beautifully  called 
Heaven. 

One  day,  months  ago,  when  we  saw  him  by 
the  hearth  and  fender,  sitting  beside,  and  hold 
ing  on  his  arm  and  bosom  his  loved  and  beau 
tiful  darling,  whoso  clear  eye  and  gentle  love 


Merely   Opening  a  Door.  201 

made  his  life  golden,  like  her  hair.  We 
almost  envied  him  the  quiet,  real  life  he  en 
joyed  in  his  little  country  home.  It  was  so 
unlike  ours  —  so  widely  different  from  the 
busy,  tiresome,  endless  drudgery  of  our  labor, 
that  we  would  have  given  him  all  we  had  for 
the  beautiful  life  he  was  living  —  for  his  sweet 
home-rest. 

We  talked  long  of  our  lives  and  what  had 
come  to  us  in  the  years  agone.  It  was  not 
long  ago.  We  once  expected  to  go  first  to  the 
other  life,  for  he  had  better  health  than  we. 
He  drew  so  close  to  his  heart  the  beautiful 
darling,  all  his  own —  he  pressed  at  times  such 
light  yet  lasting  kisses  upon  her  brow  and  lips 
as  she  rested  there  watching  for  the  words  that 
came,  that  we  looked  again  and  saw  her  as  in  a 
vision  alone  —  as  now.  At  last  we  said  :  — 

"You  are  the  nearer  home." 

"Why  think  so?" 

"To-night   we    have    seen   our   messengers 


202  Merely  Opening  a  Door. 

To  us  they  say,  *  Not  yet ! '  all  the  while  closer 
and  still  closer,  locking  and  interlocking  the 
souls  of  you  two  who  are  so  good,  kind,  and 
true  to  each  other.  She  will  soon  follow  you 
to  the  Laud  of  the  Leal,  where  you  shall  in 
deed  be  as  one." 

Then  her  arms  drew  still  closer  about  his 
neck,  and  he  bent  low  to  smooth  the  golden 
hair  and  to  kiss  away  the  tears  from  the  eyes 
of  her  he  loved.  Ah,  good  friends  —  that 
simple  home  of  a  fellow-laborer  was  more  of  a 
palace  than  are  many  mansions. 

Then,  when  all  was  still  a  few  moments  — 
and  we  were  looking  out  of  a  window  watching 
the  star  we  learned  years  ago  to  call  our  own, 
after  she  who  rested  there  so  sweetly  on  the 
bosom  of  a  true,  earnest,  loving,  thoughtful 
husband,  had  turned  her  head  so  we  could  not 
see  her  eyes,  he  said  : 

"  Sometimes  I  think  the  'day  will  not  be  so 
long,  and  I  am  ready  to  go  —  but  who  will 


Merely  Opening  a  Door.  203 

care  for  my  Darling?  This  is  all  that  holds 
me  to  life  after  the  work  I  am  to  do  is  finished. 
Who  will  care  for  her  as  I  do  ?  Who  will  hold 
her  life  as  I  do  ?  Who  will  protect  the  one  for 
whom  I  will  be  waiting,  and  whose  life  must 
be  with  mine  to  complete  the  life  of  both, 
Over  There  ? 

"You  will  protect  her?" 

Then  I  am  ready  to  go  at  any  time.  This 
was  all  that  held  me  here.  To  be  sure,  it  is 
beautiful  here  —  we  all  wish  to  stay,  but  it  will 
be  more  beautiful  There,  and  to  our  new  home 
I  am  ready  to  go,  and  wait  for  her.  Some 
times —  yes,  often,  when  from  home  —  I  feel  a 
momentary  dread  of  death  as  I  think  of  old  les 
sons,  but  the  cloud  soon  floats  away,  and  I  see 
the  sky  beyond,  as  now.  Tell  me  of  it,  and 
we  will  both  listen." 

There,  is  so  much  to  tell !  You  will  know  it 
all  before  we  can  tell  you.  Clouds  come,  and 
the  eye  rests  thereon.  If  you  allow  your  eye 


204  Merely  Opening  a  Door. 

to  follow  and  rest  on  clouds,  it  will  lead  your 
gaze  trackless  journeys  — but  if  you  look  only 
for  the  Light  in  the  East  —  for  the  sky  beyond 
—  the  cloud  will  pass  away,  and  you  will  look 
upon  a  reality.  So  with  our  lives  —  if  we  look 
steadfastly,  and  thus  do  strive,  a  reward  will 
be  ours  all  in  good  time. 

Death  is  nothing  to  be  dreaded  —  no  more 
than  the  "good-night"  parting  at  the  door 
when  we  leave  a  crowded  party  for  the  beauty 
of  our  home,  just  a  little  way  through  the  dark 
ness.  We  do  not  fear  to  sleep,  for  we  shall 
waken  again.  And  our  sleep,  resting,  and  awak 
ing  is  much  as  we  make  it.  We  can  so  live  and 
partake  during  the  day  that  we  will  have  troub 
lous  dreams  at  night  and  a  fever-shaken  brain  on 
the  morrow.  Or  we  can  so  live  to-day  that  our 
rest  to-night  will  be  sweet,  and  to-morrow  we 
will  waken  refreshed,  ready  for  the  work  or 
the  journey,  as  duty  calls  or  inclination  leads 
the  way. 


Merely  Opening  a  Door.  205 

"  Why  not  go  now  ?  "  you  may  ask.  Why 
does  not  fruit  fall  before  it  is  ripe  and  yet  be 
good  ?  Why  does  not  the  babe  become  a  man 
at  once?  Why  come  bud  and  flower — seed 
time  and  harvest  —  the  ripening  of  manhood 
as  of  grain  ?  It  is  not  all  for  us  alone  !  This 
life  nor  the  next  are  for  us  in  selfishness  ! 

There  is  work  to  do  there  as  here,  and  we 
shall  be  called  to  that  work  when  wanted,  and 
they  who  begin  at  the  eleventh  hour  will  be 
rewarded  accordingly.  We  shall  be  changed 
from  darkness  to  light,  as  our  bodies  are 
changed  from  corruption  to  earth  when  we  are 
through  with  them,  as  tenements  no  longer  fit 
to  live  in. 

There  is  no  more  danger  in  the  night  than  in 
the  day  —  the  darkness  than  the  light  —  if  we 
know  how  to  walk  and  go  only  in  the  true  light. 
It  is  less  work  to  drop  a  heavy  load  than  to 
carry  it  —  so  it  is  easier  to  part  with  a  life  well 
spent  than  to  guard  it  carefully  over  dangerous 


206  Merely  Opening  a  Door. 

roads.     "  Come  to   me  all   ye  who   are  weary 
and  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

How  boautiful  that  in  the  Great  Powerful ! 
All  who  are  laden  !  We  are  to  have  rest  —  not 
agony.  And  when  the  time  comes,  we  will  go 
as  our  friend  went.  Brave,  hopeful,  confiding. 
If  we  take  care  of  ourselves  here,  He  will  take 
care  of  us  There  ! 

There  are  many  ways  to  reach  the  great  work 
of  the  future.  We  may  dread  to  tell  those  who 
cannot  go  just  now,  "  good-bye."  It  may  seem 
impossible  that  the  walls  of  the  house  should 
part ;  but  when  comes  the  time  to  go,  a  door 
will  open  —  we  can  pass  out  and  know  that  we 
are  still  safe.  Then  we  will  take  care  not  to 
loiter  by  the  way  —  and  He  will  care  for  us. 

Thus  went  our  friend  —  and  there  shall  we 
find  him.  And  the  dear  one  he  left  will  be 
cared  for  till  she,  too,  will  be  ready  to  see  the 
door  open,  and  can  step  forth  to  light  and  life 
eternal,  happy  in  his  love  there  as  she  was 


Merely  Opening  a  Door.  207 

here,  if  she  will  be  pure  and  deserving,  as  all 
who  are  of  good  intent  will  be  or  strive  to  be. 
But  a  little  while  longer,  then  we,  too,  can  go. 
It  will  be  hard  to  part  with  those  we  love,  but 
thank  God  there  will  be  others  there  to  wel 
come  us  as  we  will  be  ready  to  welcome  the 
one  who  is  our  life  and  solace  here,  while 
working  to  earn  the  reward  which  comes  with 
the  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

.NEW  TEAR  PRESENTS   FOR   LITTLE    ONES. 

HIS  Saturday  Night  we  are  weary. 
And  who  that  works  is  not?     Day 
after   day   it    is   work,    work,   from 
morn  till  midnight.     We  work  to  gain  an  in 
fluence  for  good.     To  see  how  far  ahead  we 
can  get  from  the  ignorance  common  to  us  all  at 
birth  —  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Eternal.     To 
see  how  we  can  make  others  better  and  happier 
—  to  earn  comforts  for  those  we  love. 
If  we  were  Santa  Glaus  ! 
If  we  could  make  such  presents  as  we  would 
like  to  this  night ! 

208 


New   Year  Presents  for  Little  Ones.   209 

We  would  give  to  Christians  more  liberty, 
and  thus  make  all  men  Christians. 

We  would  give  success  in  life  to  every 
earnest  worker. 

We  would  give  pity  to  every  unfortunate,  no 
matter  who. 

We  would  give  to  all  charity,  even  as  Christ 
Jesus  gave  charity. 

We  would  give  to  every  person  in  the  world 
a  happy  home,  and  a  heart  filled  only  with 
love. 

We  would  give  to  all  men,  virtuous,  loving, 
happy  wives ;  and  to  all  women,  true,  fearless, 
loving,  careful,  considerate,  temperate  hus 
bands. 

We  would  give  all  the  workingmen  of  our 
country  happy  homes  and  encouragement. 
We  would  like  to  give  presents  to  all  the  chil 
dren  who  read  this  paper,  or  who  hear  it  read 
to  them.  But  this  we  can  not  do.  So  we 


210  New   Year  Presents  for  Little   Ones. 

write  this  article  for  their  benefit,  and  talk  to 
the  fathers  and  mothers. 

The  new  year  has  begun.  We  hope  it  will 
be  happier  and  more  filled  with  blessings  than 
the  last.  We  hope  all  the  little  children 
gathered  by  the  fireside  in  city  or  country 
homes  may  live  till  comes  the  next  New  Year, 
and  be  very  happy  all  the  time  !  Will  fathers 
and  mothers  try  to  make  them  so  ? 

Not  so  much  by  giving  presents  of  toys  as 
of  kind  words.  Not  by  expenditures  they  are 
not  able  to  make,  but  by  showing  the  little 
ones  the  way  to  be  good  and  happy. 

Who  of  the  dear,  good  mothers  who  so  love 
their  little  ones  will  agree  not  to  speak  cross ; 
not  to  punish  when  in  anger ;  not  to  get  mad 
and  provoked  at  little  things,  which  children 
always  do  because  they  are  children,  and  do 
not  know  better  till  they  have  been  taught? 
Who,  of  the  kind,  loving  mothers  who  read 
this,  will  resolve  to  be  more  and  more  careful 


New  Year  Presents  for  Little   Ones.   211 

of  the  hearts  of  their  little  ones  each  day,  and 
to  keep  them  from  the  storms  of  words,  which 
darkon  the  sky  of  young  life  and  so  cut  in 
upon  the  harmony  necessary  to  perfect  growth  ? 

You  can  not  grow  a  beautiful  plant  to  beauty 
and  perfect  blossoming  by  showering  it  with 
hot  and  cold  water  —  by  throwing  sticks  and 
stones  upon  it;  by  pinching,  twisting  it  this 
way  and  that ;  by  pulling  it  up  in  the  morn,  to 
set  it  back  in  the  earth  at  night. 

No  more  can  you  rear  a  child  to  love,  and 
goodness,  and  purity,  and  harmony  of  charac 
ter,  by  being  first  cross,  then  kind,  then  ugly, 
then  loving,  then  angered,  then  in  coaxing 
mood  till  the  young  soul  be  driven  from  point 
to  point,  gaining  never  a  rest  or  foothold  on 
the  beautiful  lawn  of  a  loving,  harmonious 
life. 

And  who  of  the  fathers  who  read  this  will 
be  good  fathers,  and  set  good  examples  for 
their  little  ones  ?  We  wish  every  father  in  the 


212  New   Year  Presents  for  Little  Ones. 

land  would  leave  off  his  rough,  vulgar,  profane 
talk.  His  little  ones  would  love  him  so  much 
the  better  and  would  grow  to  be  better  and 
purer.  Children  often  think  more  of  their 
mothers  than  they  do  of  their  fathers. 

Do  you  know  why  this  is  so  ?  We  will  tell 
you.  The  young  mind  is  pure.  It  takes  to 
purity  naturally.  The  mother  utters  fewer  hard, 
coarse,  rough  words  than  does  the  father.  The 
child,  budding,  growing  to  manhood,  clings  to 
the  smoothest,  sweetest,  most  even  life,  and 
when  come  from  the  father's  lips  words  antag 
onistic  to  the  pure  young  soul,  it  turns  to  the 
mother.  And  if  she  be  cross,  and  rough,  and 
cold,  and  uneven,  the  little  one  turns  to  the 
world,  too  often  to  be  lost  before  it  can  realize 
that  there  is  another  Power  to  turn  to  for  help 
and  protection. 

You  gave  your  little  ones  holiday  presents. 
Will  you  see  tow  near  you  can  make  of  the  year 
one  beautiful  heart-holiday  for  them,  and  then 


New   Year  Presents  for  Little  Ones.    213 

they  will  love  you  so  much  better,  and  when 
comes  the  time,  stand  between  you  and  life's 
storms,  no  matter  what  they  be. 

We  know  men  and  women  who  have  cows, 
horses,  sheep,  and  pigs  more  cared  for  than 
their  little  children.  Perhaps  it  is  because  a 
horse  or  cow  will  bring  money.  But  all  the 
money  in  the  world  is  not  such  sunshine  to  the 
heart  as  is  that  earnest  love,  without  which  life 
is  but  a  succession  of  cross  purposes.  Children 
need  this  love.  The  father  who  spends  his  days, 
in  idleness,  his  nights  in  dissipation ;  who  lets 
the  foliage  of  language  fall  from  his  lips  torn, 
stained,  broken,  worm-eaten  and  full  of  poison, 
is  weaving  thereby  a  carpet  for  the  young  soul 
he  should  teach,  so  full  of  shame,  pain,  sorrow, 
and  blight,  that  no  outer  dress  fashion  may  dic 
tate  can  make  atonement  for. 

Kind  words  are  diamonds,  pure  and  of  untold 
value.  We  know  a  father  who  is  very  rich  ;  he 
has  five  children.  He  buys  them  presents,  and 


214  New   Year  Presents  for  Little  Ones. 

is  proud  to  see  them  well-dressed  and  well- 
behaved.  But  he  never  joins  them  in  plays, 
romps,  and  games  —  it  is  undignified  !  When 
"  father  "  speaks,  it  is  like  the  tolling  of  a  bell. 
He  commands  —  they  obey,  as  do  dogs  !  He 
is  making  men  of  his  boys,  so  he  says  ! 

We  know  another  man,  with  three  children. 
He  is  not  a  rich  man  ;  only  a  worker.  But  he 
is  kind,  and  full  of  happy  thoughts.  He  is 
loved,  respected  —  almost  worshipped  by  his 
home  ones.  He  laughs  with  them,  romps  with 
them,  and  helps  them  to  make  little  toys  — 
teaching  his  children  all  the  while  to  rely  on 
themselves  for  something  to  help  interest,  amuse, 
and  instruct.  He  spends  his  evenings  at  home. 
He  wears  clean  clothes  —  puts  his  dirty  apron 
and  jacket  away  in  the  shop,  and  takes  pains  to 
go  home  with  clean  hands  and  face,  and  a  glad 
look.  He  reads  to  his  little  ones  evenings. 
He  tells  them  stories  —  incidents  of  his  life  and 
observation  —  till  the  little  ones  think,  in  all 


New   Year  Presents  for  Little  Ones.   215 

the  country  there  is  not  another  one  so  good, 
so  kind,  so  loving,  and  so  full  of  knowledge  as 
is  their  father. 

His  home  life  is  very  beautiful  and  harmoni 
ous.  He  began  right,  years  ago.  He  never 
spends  a  night  or  day  in  dissipation.  He  lives 
for  those  he  loves,  and  who  love  him,  and  is 
walking  as  straight  to  everlasting  happiness  as 
ever  a  bullet  flew  to  pierce  the  centre  of  a 
target ! 

One  day  we  heard  that  his  children  were 
better  than  other  children.  That  they  were 
better  behaved,  and  always  looked  so  smart, 
attractive,  and  intelligent  —  when  they  have 
help  to  develop  rather  than  an  existence  of  un 
certainty  between  fires  and  cross-fires.  If  all 
parents  were  good  to  their  little  ones,  or  half 
so  careful  of  them  as  of  their  furniture  —  when 
a  soul  is  easier  marked  than  a  piece  of  wood  — 
the  world  would  be  better,  and  in  a  short  time 
all  would  be  as  brothers,  eager  runners  in  the 


216  New   Year  Presents  for  Little  Ones. 

race  for  happiness  and  honorable  reward  ;  not 
only  here,  but  beyond  the  resting-place,  and  the 
schools  we  shall  find  for  parents  and  children 
in  that  land  whose  opening  gate  is  life's  final 
Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


ABCTT?  A   BRIGHT-EYED    BABT. 


HE  street  cars  were  crowded  to-night 
as  we  rode  home  from  down  town  — 
from  the  office  and  the  types,  and 
the  presses,  and  the  whir  of  machinery.  The 
workmen  were  nearly  ready  to  leave,  for  the 
last  edition  for  the  day  and  the  week  was  on 
the  press  —  the  army  of  newsboys  were  on  the 
streets  with  the  paper  just  from  the  press, 
gathering  their  harvest  of  pennies  from  the 
eager  buyers.  Said  a  fine-looking  gentleman 
beside  us  in  the  car : 

"  Saturday  night  again  !     Are  you  not  glad  ? 
I  am." 

217 


218          About  a  Bright- Eyed  Baby. 

"Yes,  we  are  glad — not  so  much  for  our- 
self,  for  our  work  is  not  finished." 

Then  the  car  stopped  —  a  woman  with  a 
sweet,  clean,  loving  face  came  in.  She  had  in 
her  arms  a  pretty  baby,  a  few  months  old. 
The  gentleman  with  whom  we  had  been  con 
versing,  gave  her  his  seat,  as  he  was  soon  to 
leave  the  car.  She  was  a  woman  about 
twenty-four  years  of  age.  Evidently  the  wife 
of  a  workingman. 

And  the  baby.  Such  a  sweet,  clean,  bright- 
looking  little  one !  Its  tinted  checks,  bright 
eyes,  clean  lips  and  face  —  its  nice  little  white 
cap  of  Berlin  wool,  with  blue  ribbons  —  its 
little,  white  cloak,  with  neat  blue  trimmings ; 
who  could  help  looking  at  the  little  innocent? 

So  we  looked.  And  smiled  —  and  winked. 
And  with  our  eyes  talked  to  the  little  one. 
And  it  laughed  and  jumped,  and  seemed  so 
happy.  And  we  had  a  nice  chat  with  the 
baby.  And  the  passengers  smiled  at  its  happi- 


About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby.          219 

ness.  A  few  crusty  people  in  the  car  sat  cold, 
stiff,  dignified,  "  manly  ! "  looking  as  though  it 
were  beneath  the  dignity  of  manhood  to  add  to 
the  happiness  of  innocence,  or  to  lighten  a 
heart  even  for  a  moment. 

But  what  of  them  or  their  stiffness?  They 
were  babies  once — so  were  we  all.  We 
talked  with  the  little  darling,  and  it  kept  laugh 
ing  in  glee.  And  we  talked  with  its  mother. 

"Is  this  your  little  one,  madam?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  old  is  it?" 

"Ten  months." 

"  A  beautiful  child  !  " 

"We  think  so  at  home." 

"And  so  bright  —  sweet,  clean,  and  good- 
natured." 

"You  think  just  as  we  do." 

"Always  so  good-natured?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  and  its  papa  ought  to  be  very  happy." 


220         About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby. 

"  Oh,  we  are,  sir." 

"  Does  he  ever  get  drunk  and  abuse  you  ?  " 

"My  husband  abuse  me?  No,  sir.  Ho 
never  was  drunk,  that  I  know  —  he  never  even 
spoke  a  cross  word  to  me  —  not  one  that  was 
ugly." 

"Nor  you  to  him?" 

"No,  sir  —  I  love  him  too  well." 

"You  must  be  very  happy  then.  And  with 
such  a  nice  baby." 

"We  are,  sir  —  we  always  were." 

"  What  does  he  do  nights  and  days  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  foreman  in  a  piano  shop  —  he 
works  there  days,  and  nights  he  reads  to  me  — 
plays  with  the  baby  —  plays  backgammon  with 
me,  and  rests." 

"  Well  —  God  love  you.  You,  and  him,  and 
baby.  Tell  him  another  workingman  said  so. 
—  Good-night." 

"  Sixteenth  street !  " 


About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby.          221 

So  said  the  car-conductor,  with  a  nod  to  us, 
and  we,  too,  were  home  or  near  there. 

And  all  the  evening  we  have  been  playing 
with  that  little  baby.  We  see  it  now  all  over 
the  paper  before  us. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  dignified  to  play  with  a 
bundle  of  innocence  on  the  cars  !  Well,  who 
cares  ?  Baby  and  we  liked  it  —  and  its  mother 
was  not  displeased,  and  many  an  eye  looked 
just  as  we  felt. 

"  How  could  we  talk  to  its  mother  and  not 
know  her —  without  an  introduction?" 

We  knew  her !  Her  face  told  us  who  she 
was  —  a  good  wife  and  mother.  Her  baby  in 
troduced  us  —  a  higher  power,  that  of  Inno 
cence,  introduced  us.  We  meant  no  wrong, 
no  impertinence.  And  think  you  a  woman 
does  not  know  when  a  man  means  well  —  when 
he  is  a  gentleman?  She  read  us  aright.  Would 
to  God  all  people  would  do  so.  Then  we  could 
do  more  good. 


f  22          About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby. 

And  so  to-night  we  thought  we  would  write 
of  the  baby.  God  love  the  little  innocent  — 
all  the  little  ones  who  have  good  mothers  and 
good  fathers.  And  all  who  have  not  good 
parents  to  love  them,  and  to  caro  for  them. 
And  all  the  little  foundlings  and  orphans  who 
are  without  love,  and  who  must  walk  for  years 
under  trees  that  have  neither  flowers  nor  fruit. 

We  have  been  thinking  of  the  dear  little 
babies  all  over  the  land,  and  of  the  little  ones 
who  are  sick  and  dying  as  we  write  this  —  of 
the  little  pets  who  have  gone  before  us  to  their 
rest,  escaping  the  heat  of  the  day,  the  torture 
of  heart,  the  weary  struggle  and  net-work  of 
temptations  about  us  who  are  growing  old  ! 

We  wish  all  the  little  babies  were  as  clean, 
as  happy,  as  well  cared  for  as  the  one  we  saw 
to-night.  We  wish  all  of  them  had  good 
mothers  and  fathers,  who  never  spoke  cross 
words  to  deaden  hearts  and  love  for  each  other, 
or  to  make  the  little  one  wonder,  as  it  grows 


About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby.          223 

up,  why  people  who  love  each  other  so  often 
tajk  cross,  quarrel,  scold,  and  set  for  the  little 
watcher  bad  examples.  Little  pitchers  have 
big  ears  ;  young  eyes  see  —  and  young  memo 
ries  are  the  best ! 

And  we  have  been  thinking  of  mothers  who 
care  more  for  dress,  gossip,  scandal,  ease, 
novel-reading,  and  street  show  than  for  little 
babies.  Of  mothers  who  are  in  good  health, 
but  too  fashionable  to  take  care  of  their  own 
children.  Of  mothers  who  are  dissipated  and 
filling  their  blood  with  poison  to  give  as 
legacies  of  disease  to  other  little  babies,  which 
to  them  in  time  may  come  if  the  laws  of  God 
and  life  be  observed.  Of  the  women  who  have 
nice  babies,  and  love  them,  O  !  so  dearly,  just 
as  we  pray  their  little  one  may  ever  love  them. 
Of  the  poor  women  who  drag  their  love,  their 
life,  their  bodies?  out  of  shape  and  into  the  grave 
bearing  babies  only  to  please  a  lazy,  selfish 
husband,  who  devotes  his  energies  to  raising 


224          About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby. 

children  to  support  him  in  his  declining  years, 
as  one  would  buy  a  horse  to  do  his  work. 

And  we  have  been  thinking  of  the  poor 
women  who  love  their  babies,  but  who  cannot 
dress  them  even  decently ;  who  have  no  loving 
husbands  to  care  for  them,  and  who,  with 
heavy  hearts,  sigh,  and  wish,  and  wonder  if 
their  children  ever  will  look  nice  and  be  of  use 
in  life.  And  we  have  been  looking  back  over 
the  life  of  the  mother  we  talked  with  on  the 
cars. 

—  A  happy  girl.  Married  to  an  honest- 
hearted  man.  Not  a  scion  of  snobbish  aristoc 
racy,  living  on  the  labor  of  others,  but  a  young, 
working  man.  Joined  together  by  God,  in 
love  and  devotion.  Their  lives  in  unison. 
And  thus  they  begat  a  child.  No  fear,  sorrow, 
remorse,  terror,  dread,  nervousness  and  doubt 
of  him,  his  love,  devotion,  virtue,  honesty  or 
ability  to  care  for  her  and  theirs  —  no  cross, 
cold,  unkind,  heart-cutting  words  to  affect  the 


About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby.          225 

unborn  as  nature  molds  natures  !  No  petulant, 
uncaring  days  of  neglect  and  abuse.  And  so 
they  lived.  And  so  baby  came.  And  so  it  is 
good-natured,  bright,  happy  —  and  so  it  will 
make  others  —  for  the  line  of  God-given  love 
loses  not  by  the  wayside,  but  extends  from 
conception  to  dissolution,  and  even  into  the 
Land  of  the  Leal,  as  thread  left  by  the  shuttle, 
whose  hither  and  yon  weaves  the  fabric  to  pat 
terns  as  we  direct !  A  happy  woman !  A 
happy  wife  !  A  happy  mother.  A  kind  hus 
band.  A  noble  man.  A  common  laborer ! 
One  of  God's  monarchs,  who  will  reign  in  the 
hereafter,  and  help  by  their  deeds  here  and 
work  there  Him  who  was  and  is  the  greatest 
laborer  of  all. 

A  brave,  true,  home-loving  man.  He 
spends  not  in  dissipation.  He  romps  with  his 
baby.  He  reads  to  his  wife.  He  enjoys  home 
games.  He  is  not  ashamed  to  love  and  to  be 
loved.  He  is  fairly  worshipped  by  her  who 


22G          About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby. 

cares  for  the  baby  and  for  him  as  he  cares  for 
them.  He  dare  be  a  man.  He  dare  save  his 
earnings,  his  honor  —  his  manhood — his  life! 
God  love  him,  and  all  such  — yes,  God  love  all 
who  do  not  love  their  home  ones —  who  do  not 
love  themselves,  but  who  throw  their  lives 
away  —  their  powers  to  do  good  forgetting, 
and  who  live  to  no  purpose  except  to  labor  to 
enrich  the  dealers  ill-dissipation,  or  the  slave- 
holding  aristocrat. 

And  we  have  been  thinking  how  a  woman 
will  and  does  love  such  a  man  —  one  who  loves 
her,  her  home,  her  little  ones.  How  proud 
she  is  of  him.  How  strong  in  his  love.  I  low 
protecting  in  her  love.  Plow  sweet  her  life  is 
to  him.  And  this  is  life  —  as  God  wished  and 
intended  we  should  enjoy  —  as  all  would,  but 
for  their  dissipation  and  weakness. 

Perhaps  some  of  those  who  read  this  are  too 
dignified  to  play  with  babies  !  Too  proud  to 
unbend  —  too  cowardly  to  follow  their  better 


About  a  Bright-Eyed  Baby.  227 

natures.  If  so,  we  pity  them.  May  God  give 
them  kinder  hearts,  but  not  take  from  them 
their  babies  —  their  darlings  —  before  comes 
to  them  another  and  a  better  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


THINKING   OF   THE   PAST   AND   THE    FUTURE. 


pain  has  passed  away.  With  the 
week  just  gone,  it  rolled  silently 
down  the  depths  of  the  past,  leaving 
us  one  Saturday  Night  nearer  the  golden  future, 
and  the  reward  we  are  more  than  confident  it 
will  bring.  And  now  that  the  week  has  gone, 
taken  with  it  the  thousand  cares  it  brought,  we 
are  glad,  and  all  the  more  ready  for  another 
seven  days'  battle  with  life,  and  those  troubles 
which  with  singular  energy  so  steadily  crowd 
to  fill  the  path  before  us.  But  troubles  will 
come  —  as  we  who  would  conquer  must  trample 

them    down  and  press  on  —  and    on,  and  still 

228 


The  Past  and  the  Future.          229 

on.     For  only  those  who  strive  will  reach  tho 
goal. 

And  now  that  the  most  blessed  of  the  nights 
named  is  with  us,  let  us  rest.  Are  you  weary  ? 
Then  sit  in  your  room,  or  w?th  the  one  or  ones 
so  dear  to  you,  and  living  every  minute  in  your 
heart,  and  think  a  little  to-night. 

We  have  been  thinking  and  thinking  a  full 
hour. 

"  And  what  of?  "  you  may  ask.  We  will  tell 
you.  Perhaps  you  will  laugh  at  us,  and  say  we 
are  not  manly.  But  we  care  not  for  that.  Tho 
record  of  our  life  here  goes  before  us  to  Over 
There,  and  it  matters  not,  when  we  go  for  such 
reward  as  may  be  oucs,  Avhat  any  one  here  may 
or  may  not  think  of  us.  The  record  is  perfected 
There  before  the  act  be  finished  Here. 

We  have  been  down  the  well  of  time.  Into 
vapory  memory.  Walking  again  the  life  road 


230  The  Past  and  the  Future. 

we  for  years  have  been  stepping  over.  We 
have  called  up  all  the  childish  faces  we  knew  in 
the  years  agoue.  Have  visited  the  old  spots 
and  haunts  where  as  a  boy  we  rested,  rambled, 
and  built  air-castles.  We  have  been  in  mem 
ory,  with  our  school  companions — with  our 
playmates.  With  the  friends  of  our  youth,  and 
looking  over  the  acts,  good,  bad  and  indifferent, 
which  fill  the  pages  of  our  past  —  which  have 
made  so  much  of  the  volume  which  will  be  fin 
ished  forever  when  shall  come  some  Saturday 
Night. 

We  have  seen  where  we  made  missteps,  and 
where  we  stepped  by  or  over  thousands  of 
temptations.  We  have  seen  where  we  would 
have  done  differently  here^  or  there,  if  it  were 
ours  to  walk  again  the  cruel,  tortuous,  rugged, 
dangerous,  torturing  road,  over  which  so  far  we 
have  safely  journeyed.  We  have  looked  back 
at  little  chances  to  have  done  good,  which  we 


The  Past  and  the  Future.*         231 

neglected   from    carelessness,    and   have  made 
good  resolves  for  the  future. 

And  we  have  looked  at  the  lives  of  our  com 
panions,  or  many  of  them.  We  have  followed 
them  as,  perhaps,  they  in  thought  sometimes 
follow  us.  Some  of  them  sleep  —  no  !  they  do 
not  sleep  !  Some  of  them,  when  came  the  time, 
closed  their  eyes  and  brought  their  lives  to  a 
whizper  here,  to  see  and  to  speak  aloud  Over 
There.  We  have  walked  to-night  down  the 
aisles  of  memory  by  many  a  grave  and  recollec 
tion,  as  one  day,  perhaps,  some  one  or  ones 
will  pass  by  ours.  . 

Some  of  our  early  companions  live  —  some  do 
not.  At  least,  not  here  !  Some  of  them  went 
Over  the  River,  loved  and  happy.  Some  of 
them  fell  by  the  wayside,  and  went  out  with 
that  tide  which  rolls  to  restlessness.  Some 
have  married,  and  many  have  mourned.  A 
few  —  a  very  few  of  all  the  ones  we  knew  are 
happy,  while  many  are  not.  But  of  them  all, 


232         *    The  Past  and  the  Future. 

not  one  so  happy  as  we  are.  At  least  we  would 
not  give  our  happiness  for  theirs  ;  our  full  faith 
for  their  doubts — our  earnest  work  for  their 
hours  of  play. 

Many  who  were  our  friends  then  are  our 
friends  now,  and  God  knows  they  are  dear  to 
us.  And  some  there  are  who  a  few  years  since 
would  not  speak  to  a  child  of  poverty,  who  now 
do  not  see  fit  to  remember  that  once  we  were 
too  far  beneath  them  in  the  scale  of  wealth  to 
be  noticed.  As  if  money  made  the  man,  or 
wealth  made  us  noble  ! 

At  times  we  have  felt  envious.  And  who  of 
us  all  have  not?  But  now  we  envy  no  person 
in  all  the  world.  Some  we  know  are  richer, 
but  we  would  not  give  our  friends  for  theirs  — 
our  heart-rest  for  theirs  —  our  happiness  for 
theirs.  Some  there  are  who  have  made  for 
tunes  —  but  hoarded  gold  rests  on  the  coffin-lid 
too  heavy  for  the  soul  to  rise  perfect  to  that 
Power  to  which  it  belongs. 


The  Past  and  the  Future.  233 

We  all  at  times  look  back  and  feel  envious 
of  the  success  of  others.  But  when  Ave  have 
done  our  best,  we  have  done  all  they  have.  If 
we  have  not,  the  fault  is  with  us.  And  while 
many  have  done  better,  how  many  of  our  old 
friends  and  playmates  have  done  worse  ?  Who 
of  them  have  been  happier  and  more  respected  ? 
Are  not  most  of  us  better  off  than  many,  and 
many  who  started  life  with  us  ? 

Years  ago  we  were  very  poor.  Money  we  had 
none.  Friends  were  not  so  plenty  as  now,  for 
we  had  not  by  long  and  honest  endeavor  won 
them,  or  tried  to,  by  so  living  as  to  deserve 
confidence.  But  we  alwaj^s  hoped  for  the  best. 
We  were  willing  to  work,  and  always  willing 
to  wait.  And  to  the  one  who  is  willing  to  wait 
the  morn,  the  night  is  always  the  shortest. 
Life  with  us  has  been  a  success.  More  so  than 
to  many  others.  We  have  health.  We  have 
strength.  We  have  a  willingness  to  work. 
We  have  a  constitution  carefully  guarded  to 


234  The  Past  and  the  Future. 

middle  life,  unbroken  and  inrvveakened  by  dis 
sipation,  other  than  follows  overwork.  We 
can  see  already  good  fruits  on  trees  we  have 
planted.  By  labor  we  have  turned  our  muscle 
into  support,  and  intellect  to  at  least  reason 
able  use. 

Before  us  on  the  desk  is  a  watch  marking 
almost  the  midnight  hour.  A  little  thing  of 
itself,  but  we  earned  it.  On  our  finger  is  a 
ring  bearing  Masonic  emblems.  We  earned 
that  also.  And  the  desk  on  which  we  write  — 
the  pen  in  our  hand  —  the  beautiful  pictures  on 
the  wall  —  the  piano  standing  there  to  give  out 
at  times  the  music  which  so  rests  us  —  the  car 
pets  on  the  floors  —  the  vases,  statuettes,  and 
ornaments  of  the  room  all  about  us,  are  noth 
ing  of  themselves,  but  we  earned  them.  They 
surround  us  with  encouraging  presence,  telling 
us  to  go  on.  We  see  by  this  presence  that  wo 
have  lived  to  a  purpose.  That  we  have  beau 
tified  our  place  of  labor  until  people  say  it  is  a 
parlor.  We  sec  that  we  have  given  employ- 


The  Past  and  the  Future.  235 

ment  to  artists,  artisans,  mechanics,  and 
genius.  And  thus  we  have  helped  others  in 
turn  to  beautify  their  homes. 

So  we  live,  day  after  day,  in  the  midst  of 
works  of  our  own  creation.  We  might  have 
spent  more  time  idly,  but  our  health  would  not 
have  been  better.  We  might  have  spent  what 
we  earned  in  dissipation  from  the  first,  but  are 
not  these  articles  of  beauty  more  a  source  of 
happiness  and  of  gratification  to  friends  ;  more 
a  good  example  and  incentive  to  poor  boys  and 
deserving  men  everywhere,  than  a  form  bent,  a 
body  ruined,  a  face  marked  by  dissipation? 

As  we  see  what  we  have  accomplished,  we 
feel  stronger  for  further  efforts.  And  all  the 
more  so,  for  a  bright  face  haunts  us  still.  A 
kind  and  loving  heart  bids  us  rest  from  labor 
in  its  gentle  sunshine  ;  kind  words  come  to  us, 
and  eyes  which  talk  volumes  of  God's  language, 
speak  to  us  so  often.  And  so,  in  all  the  world 
is  there  no  peace  like  the  one  we  have  earned. 


236  The  Past  and  the  Future. 

No  friends  like  ours ;  that  is,  none  so  good,  so 
true,  so  kind,  so  earnest,  so  confiding.  We 
have  something  to  live  for.  As  all  who  read  this 
have.  What  we  have  done,  others  may. 

Other  men  can  be  kind  and  they  will  be. 
Other  men  can  earn  beautiful  homes,  and  can 
make  their  workshops  attractive.  And  they 
will.  Other  men  can  have  money  for  books, 
pictures,  etc.,  and  enjoy  the  present  —  or  they 
can  live  aimless  lives,  and  sleep  in  the  bitter 
dregs  of  a  misspent  existence. 

We  would  not  write  this  now,  but  we  love 
the  boys  and  the  workingmen  of  the  land,  who 
deserve  homes  of  their  own,  and  hearts  of 
their  choosing,  and  love  to  protect  them.  We 
love  the  brave,  earnest  poor  boys  of  our  coun 
try,  and  so  sit  to-night  to  tell  them  that  by 
work  and  a  care  for  their  manhood  they  can  be 
rich  and  happy.  Not  that  wealth  is  required 
to  make  us  happy,  but  to  enable  us  to  make 
•others  so,  and  thus  add  to  our  own. 


The  Past  and  the  Future.  237 

We  love  the  earnest  men  of  toil  who  dare  be 
men  —  who  dare  strive  for  usefulness  —  who 
dare  make  their  homes  attractive,  and  who  dare 
live  for  their  loved  ones.  And  so,  with  a 
heart  reaching  far  out  to  the  little  homes  of 
the  land,  do  we  love  to  sit  and  write,  as  if  we 
were  talking  by  the  hearthstone  and  fender ;  to 
talk  socially  and  in  quiet  kindness  to  our 
friends,  and  to  bid  them  and  their  good  wives 
and  happy  little  ones  God-speed  —  to  wish  for 
them  all  a  happy  life  and  beautiful  home,  not 
only  here,  but  in  that  glorious  Land  of  the 
Leal,  which  all  of  us  are  nearer  by  another 
Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

NOT    SO   LONELY   AFTER   ALL  ! 


as  our  hopes  come  and  go  are 
the  weeks  lifted  into  the  invisible,  as 
in  time  all  of  us  who  read  and  who 
write  —  who  love  or  who  hate  —  who  toil  or 
idle,  will  be.  And  how  short  each  of  these 
weeks  is  as  we  look  back  from  this  to  last  Sat 
urday  Night.  And  yet  the  past  week  has  been 
a  long  one,  for  since  last  we  sat  by  our  desk  to 
bid  the  week  "good-by,"  and  watch  its  fading 
memories  floating  Eternal-ward,  a  loved  friend 
has  gone  home  to  await  .our  coming  in  the 
beautiful  land  where  all  words  are  kind  and  all 
shadows  golden. 

238 


Not  so  Lonely  After  AIL  239 

And  so  they  go.  Why  can  not  we  who  are 
tired,  weary,  heart-sore,  and  overworked  go  at 
once,  and  not  wait  till  the  sun  goes  down  and 
every  minute  of  the  day  worked  out?  To 
night  we  feel  sad.  The  air  seems  filled  with 
strange,  plaintive  whisperings,  as  if  friends  of 
the  invisible  were  mourning  at  our  tardiness 
and  blaming  us  for  not  being  with  them  before 
our  time  —  before  our  allotted  work  be  fin 
ished.  They  seem  to  tell  us  that  loved  ones 
over  there  are  each  day  coming  from  beautiful 
groves  and  flower-lined  walks  to  the  shore  of 
the  sea  which  rolls  from  time  to  eternity,  but 
never  this  way,  to  see  if  we  are  not  yet 
arrived.  As  our  loved  ones  over  there  are 
waiting  and  looking  for  all  of  us  who  are 
good,  and  true,  and  kind,  and  loving. 

To-night  we  are  all  alone  —  save  the  golden 
presence  we  often  feel,  and  so  often  see,  when 
with  it  we  wander  leagues  away,  over  plain, 
hill,  valley,  mountain,  and  sea — over  the 


240,  Not  so  Lonely  After  All. 

wondrous  sea  of  Death,  but  ever  returning  till 
we  cross  it  aright,  as  others  over  there  have 
crossed.  But  the  sunshine  from  over  there 
rests  in  our  heart  continually,  and  it  gives  such 
light  and  peace  to  the  mind.  We  have  no 
more  fear  of  the  kiss  of  death  than  of  the 
cooling  ice  which  is  so  grateful  to  fevered  lips. 

Back  to  our  room  which  in  spirit  we  left  an 
hour  ago.  And  we  have  been,  O  !  so  many 
leagues  away.  "We  are  lonely.  Did  you  ever 
feel  as  if  the  very  air  was  thick  —  as  if  no  one 
could  penetrate  it  to  be  with  you?  Did  you 
ever  sit  and  long  for  the  presence  of  some  one 
till  it  seemed  as  if  the  soul  would  fly?  Did 
you  ever  sit  and  think  of  some  loved  one  till 
the  heart  would  be  stilled  as  if  pulseless 
silence  forever,  and  it  seemed  that  you  must 
cry  out  in  agony  ?  . 

To-night  we  have  felt'  so.  It  seems  as  if 
there  were  nothing  but  duty  in  the  world  — 


Not  so  Lonely  After  All.  241 

as  if  there  were  no  end  to  this  wearying  labor. 
O  !  if  some  one  who  is  absent  could  be  with 
us.  If  some  one  whos'e  smile  is  our  life  — 
—  whose  heart  is  our  resting-place  —  whose 
lips  are  so  sweet  —  whose  hand  is  so  soft  — 
whose  life  has  so  run  and  woven  itself  in  with 
ours  —  whose  eyes  seem  to  us  like  avenues  to 
the  Eternal,  could  be  with  us  as  of  yore.  If 
we  could  hear  that  loved  voice  —  could  hold 
to  our  heart  the  one  we  know  beats  more  for 
us  than  for  any  other  person  of  all  God's  mil 
lions —  could  sit  palm  in  palm  resting  —  could 
rest  our  aching  head  and  wildly-throbbing  tem 
ples  on  that  bosom  where  it  would  be  so  wel 
come  —  could  rest,  and  feel  all  the  while  that 
none  were  so  truly  happy  as  we  who  would 
thus  add  to  our  love  and  happiness,  how  light 
would  be  our  heart  and  sweet  our  rest  this 
dying  hour  of  the  week. 

All    the   week   have   we   labored  —  perhaps 
having  done  some  little  good.     We  have  tried 

16 


242  Not  so  Lonely  After  AIL 

to  be  good.  Last  Saturday  Night,  wearied, 
overworked,  nervous,  and  disappointed,  we 
forgot  otirself  just  once  and  uttered  a  cross 
word.  God  knows  we  have  suffered  for  it. 
The  memory  of  it  comes  with  its  blackness,  to 
chide  and  cast  a  gloom  over  the  heart.  We 
should  not  so  speak  to-night.  We  have  not  so 
spoken  since.  And  God  being  our  help,  we 
shall  no  more  speak  so,  for  cross  words  are 
unmanly,  and  cut  like  red-hot  blade  of  steel  to 
the  very  quick  of  the  soul.  There  are  no 
cross  words  spoken  Over  There  ;  and  oft  while 
others  sleep  we  go  there  to  listen,  to  look  upon 
the  face  of  the  one  who  is  our  guide  and 
strength. 

If  we  cannot  conquer  ourselves  we  cannot 
conquer  death !  If  we  cannot  teach  our 
tongues  to  speak  kindly  to  others,  how  will 
others  speak  kindly  to  us  ?  And  how  weak  we 
all  are  !  Who  of  us  can  walk  alone  ?  And 
who  so  brave  of  heart  as  the  one  who  is  loved, 


Not  so  Lonely  After  AIL  243 

for  this  is  God's  armor  I  How  one  can  toil  — 
can  wait —  can  suffer  —  can  battle  on  manfully 
-T- can  struggle  as  did  Jacob  with  the  Angel 
from  Heaven  —  can  endure  —  can  resist  temp 
tation —  can  defy  danger  and  trouble,  if  there 
be  to  protect  and  encourage,  the  true,  earnest, 
living  love  of*  a  kindred  heart,  all,  all,  ALL 
your  own.  If  we  are  but  loved,  the  hours 
seem  like  minutes  —  the  labors  of  the  day  but 
pastime — the  trials  of  life  but  little  patches 
of  shade  over  the  sunlit  sward.  God  bless  all 
who  love  each  other  —  no  matter  who  they  be 
—  who  they  love  —  mated  or  unmated,  for  our 
mating  here  is  no  more  our  mating  over  there, 
except  hearts  grow  together,  than  the  darkness 
of  earth  is  the  sunlight  of  Heaven.  There  are 
no  chains  over  there  —  no  longing  for  some 
thing  not  to  be  had  —  no  crushing  under  the 
ponderous  wheels  of  mistaken  duty,  as  heathen 
are  crushed  under  the  car  which  bears  simply 


244  Not  so  Lonely  After  All. 

the  idol  of  their  own  creation,  as  their  "re 
ligion  "  dictates. 

But  we  shall  be  with  the  loved  and  absent  be 
fore  long.  The  days  will  fly  quickly,  for  they 
shorten  as  we*  near  the  grave!  And  then  we 
shall  rest.  Then  we  shall  look  deep  into  those 
eyes.  And  sink  •  like  a  chifft  to  sweetest 
slumber  into  the  heart  we  know,  for  God  has 
told  us,  beats  for  no  other  one  on  earth.  And 
we  shall  smooth  back  the  hair  from  that  brow 
—  shall  hold  to  our  heart  the  one  that  throbs 
responsive,  and  then  will  come  the  glorious 
sunshine  which  leads  us  ever  on  through  the 
dark  and  weary  hours  of  those  who  are  lonely. 

All  there  is  of  life  is  love.  Ambition  is  but 
crumbling  straw  to  be  burned  by  time.  It 
dies  upon  the  lips,  but  enters  not  the  heart  to 
lighten  and  make  truly  glorious.  All  these 
conquests  —  these  adding  of  acres  —  this  piling 
up  of  wealth  for  others,  is  nothing  to  the  grow 
ing  of  that  love  for  others  which  will  carry  us 


Not  so  Lonely  After  All.  245 

safely  over  the  wondrous  sea  where  those 
whose  hearts  are  heavy  with  lust,  passion  base 
and  selfish,  desires  only  for  personal  gratifica 
tion,  will  sink  to  rise  no  more. 

Then  let  those  love  who  will  —  who  can  —  for 
thus  are  we  joining  hearts  for  the  Eternal, 
where  it  will  not  be  good  for-man  to  live  alone. 
And  rest  those  who  love  —  closer  bind  them 
together,  counting  as  lost  hours  those  which 
keep  united  souls  apart,  as  the  light  is  kept 
from  fruit  and  flower  to  wither  and  fade  and 
fall  before  its  time  ! 

And  though  we  are  lonely  to-night,  sitting 
with  the  dying  week,  we  are  not  lonely,  for  a 
gentle  presence  is  with  us.  "We  shall  meet  and 
be  where  the  heart  is,  all  in  good  time.  And 
then  the  eyes  will  be  brighter  —  the  lips 
sweeter  —  the  brow  smoother  and  more  lovable 
- —  the  heart  happier  —  the  golden  promise 
more  than  realized  as  eyes  talk,  and  touch  of 


246  Not  so  Lonely  After  All. 

love  thrills  with  wild,  strange,  ecstatic  emo 
tion. 

And  we  are  satisfied  with  our  little  loneli 
ness,  soon  to  be  over  with,  as  we  think  of  the 
weary,  heart-wrecked,  wretched  ones,  who 
have  no  loves  to  make  them  happy.  Of  the 
poor  little  children  wrho  are  orphaned,  or 
whose  parents  do  not  love  them.  Of  the 
lonely  wanderers  who  have  no  homes,  but  who 
are  the  driftwood  —  the  flotsom  on  the  sea  of 
life  —  with  hearts  water-logged  and  sinking 
into  the  bad  from  lack  of  buoyant  love. 

And  we  are  not  lonely  for  all  —  when  soon 
we  shall  meet  with  our  loved  and  absent. 
These  days  will  soon  pass  away.  These  weeks 
will  soon  be  gone.  We  shall  be  the  nearer  the 
shore  and  the  starting  on  our  voyage.  We  are 
not  so'  lonely  as  the  men  who  are  unloved  — 
who  'are  lost  to  themselves,  to  others,  to  life  — 
to  ambition  —  to  love  —  to  happiness  from  that 
dissipation  they  would  be  happier  to  walk  away 


Not  so  Lonely  After  All.  247 

from.  We  are  not  so  lonely  as  many  a  man 
we  know  of  who  works,  and  works,  and  works, 
but  who  has  no  loving  heart  to  welcome  him 
home  —  no  neat,  clean,  sweet,  loving,  true, 
kind-hearted,  caressing,  affectionate,  soul- 
cheering  loved  one  to  watch  and  welcome  his 
coming. 

We  are  not  so  lonely  as  many  a  poor  woman 
who  was  loved,  and  caressed,  and  given 
presents,  and  led  along  by  promises  of  love, 
constancy,  and  devotion  forever,  years  ago, 
when  the  one  who  is  now  a  cold,  selfish,  reck 
less,  passion-gratifying  husband  was  her  lover. 
We  are  not  so  lonely  as  many  a  poor  woman 
who  is  living  in  a  cold  home,  with  nothing  but 
rags,  or  labor,  or  sorrow,  or  child-bearing,  or 
sickness,  or  her  heart-crushing  "  duty  "  to  live 
for,  simply  because  society  demands  sacrifices 
God  does  not !  We  are  not  so  lonely  to-night 
as  many  a  woman  whose  loving  heart  has  been 
wrecked  —  whose  furrow-marked  face  tells  us 


248  Not  so  Lonely  After  All. 

exactly  her  grief,  as  we  see  where  the  lines  of 
care  are  planted  —  whose  soul  fairly  shows  the 
coming  of  the  husband  whose  touch  is  agony, 
whose  kiss  is  sickening,  whose  passion  is  her 
pain,  whose  ecstasy  is  her  misery,  whose  pres 
ence  her  despair,  whose  word  her,  law,  and 
whose  love  is  but  selfish  tyranny  !  God  pity 
these  poor  lonely  ones  —  the  heart-wrecked 
mudsills  on  which  society  Tests  its  barn-like 
prison-house  of  Christian  duty  —  as  if  it  were 
the  duty  of  a  Christian  people  to  torture  the 
soul  and  crush  the  heart  as  heathen  do  their 
bodies,  or  to  palsy  their  affections  as  heathen 
do  their  arms  and  bodies  in  doing  penance. 

And  so,  thinking  of  these  soul-sorrowing 
ones  the  world  dares  not  speak  kindly  to  for 
fear  of  offending  tyrants,  we  are  not  lonely. 
Very  soon  we  will  be  with  the  loved  and  the 
absent,  and  then  we  will  rest,  and  be  loved, 
as  we  shall  rest,  shall  love,  and  be  loved  beyond 
the  quiet  hours  of  our  final  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

PUT   THEM   AWAY. 

||ICK!    Tick!     Tick! 

How,  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  unno 
ticed  at  other  times,  strikes  like  ham 
mer  of  iron  to  the  heart  as  we  sit  here  to-night, 
in  a  room  yesterday  occupied  by  a  living,  loving 
friend  !  To-night  she  is  at  rest  in  the  Golden 
Land.  And  we  mourn  — -  not  so  much  that  she 
is  out  of  pain  and  bodily  agony,  but  that  no 
more  on  earth  can  we  hear  her  voice  —  listen  to 
her  encouraging  words,  or  look  into  her  eyes  that 
so  eloquently  mirrored  the  purity  of  her  soul. 
To-morrow,  so  soon  to  be  here,  will"  be  the 
Sabbath.  Day  of  rest  —  Day  of  sadness!  for 

249 


250  Put  Them  Away. 

a  dear,  good  friend  has  already  in  this  life  won 
her  crown  and  place  with  those  who  have  passed 
on,  while  we  are  left  to  win  ours,  but  with  no 
more  of  that  help  which  came  from  her  good 
wishes,  pure  counsel,  and  beautiful,  unselfish 
friendship. 

No  one  in  the  room  with  us  —  save  the  guar 
dian  spirits,  each  with  pure,  loving  thoughts  for 
us  to  give  to  others.  "What  is  left  of  her  lies 
in  another  room.  The  door  is  just  ajar.  All 
is  still  —  very  still  in  there.  We  listen  and 
hear  the  ticking  of  the  clock  —  nothing  more . 

Let  us  see  !  Twenty  years  ago  we  sat,  as 
now,  in  a  room  much  like  this,  while  a  friend, 
or  the  temple  in  which  he  once  dwelt,  rested  in 
a  room  adjoining.  We  were  then  as  now  in  the 
presence  of  death.  Then  we  were  not  at  rest 
as  now.  The  wind  howled  without.  We  were 
afraid.  There  seemed  then  to  come  a  shadow 
of  terror  from  the  "waiting-room." 

Were  you  ever  afraid  to  be  with  the  dead  ? 


"This  was  her  room.     O  I  Memories  1     Wherever  the  eye  rests  there  is 
something  to  remind  us  of  the  absent  one." — Sue.  tJinjf  331. 


Put  Them  Away.  251 

Did  you  ever  fear  to  be  alone  with  death  ?  If 
so,  we  pity  you,  if  your  fear  and  sufferings  were 
like  ours  in  the  years  agone,  before  there  came 
about  us  a  light  as  came  to  one  long  since  —  as 
comes  to  many  who  are  deserving.  But  to 
night  we  are  not  afraid.  Why  should  we  be  ? 
There  is  nothing  there  to  harm  us.  Only  a 
lesson  —  that  our  home  is  not  here.  While  we 
work,  she  is  at  rest.  While  we  listen  to  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  as  Time  marks  those  who 
have  "  gone  home,"  she  is  waiting  on  the  shore 
for  the  one  whose  very  heart,  .soul  and  life,  she 
won  by  her  purity  and  kindness,  while  here  to 
bless  him  with  her  love  and  Heaven-born  influ 
ence. 

Others  mourn  with  us.  They  sleep  in  restless 
beds,  to  waken  in  tearful  sorrow  while  we  keep 
watch  of  the  flying  hours,  each  laden  with  souls 
going  from  here  to  the  beautiful  Land  of  the 
Leal. 

This  was  her  room.    O !  Memories ! 


252  Put  Them  Aivay. 

ever  the  eye  rests  there  is  something  to  remind 
us  of  the  absent  one.  There  is  a  little  watch- 
case  nearly  finished,  as  she  left  it  until  her  re 
covery  !  There  is  a  book  in  which  she  read  but 
three  days  ago.  Here  is  a  little  ribbon  worn 
in  her  hair,  which  we  kiss  with  tear-wet  eyes. 
She  has  gone  !  It  is  so  still  here  !  It  is  so 
lonesome  for  those  who  are  left  alone  to  look  at 
the  little  articles  worn  or  used  by  the  absent 
ones.  W.G  pity,  O  !  so  deeply  —  those  who 
weep,  and  watch,  and  pray  —  those  who  are 
left  to  wait  in  the^ storms  of  life,  while  the  loved 
one  waits  on  the  distant  sunny  shore. 

There  is  a  slipper  once  worn  by  her  —  a 
glove  —  a  thimble  once  worn  upon  the  finger 
now  so  cold  and  lifeless.  In  that  little  desk  are 
letters  and  scraps,  and  kind  words  from  others 
to  h^r.  In  that  little  jewel-box  is  a  ring,  and  a 
few  other  articles  more  precious  than  wealth, 
for  they  were  hers.  All  about  the  room  we  see 
her  still ! 


Put  Them  Away.  253 

O,  Father  in  Heaven — why  is  she  not 
here,  with  her  kind  words  —  her  pure  love  — 
her  eyes  so  full  of  beautiful  language  ?  Why 
cannot  those  who  love  go  home  together  when 
so  true  to  each  other  they  walk  the  paths  of 
life  here  ?  When  we  must  part  some  day,  if 
only  for  a  time,  why  do  we  not  live  better, 
purer,  truer,  and  more  loving  for  each  other 
than  for  self?  We  can  not  find  our  way  or  live 
pur  life  alone  so  well  as  with  a  heart  united. 

Then,  good  angel ;  merciful  Death  !  come  for 
those  who  are  left  to  mourn,  and  bear  us  to 
them,  from  pain  to  ease  —  from  tears  to  smiles 
—  from  grief  to  joy  —  from  separation  to  unit 
ing.  Then  will  you  be  a  welcome  —  welcome  — 
welcome  visitor,  and  we  reach  forth  to  call  you 
to  us,  as  a  babe  reaches  for  the  hands  that  are 
to  bear  it  to  the  bosom  of  love. 

On  the  walls  are  pictures  she  arranged.  She 
made  everything  so  homelike.  All  about  are 
evidences  of  her  work  and  care,  for  good 


254  Put  Them  Away. 


men.  Here  and  there  are  evidences  that  she 
lived  and  loved.  Garments  she  wore  till  it 
seems  now  as  if  a  portion  of  her  life  were  left 
therein,  so  much  did  she  individualize  every 
thing  about  her. 

See  there  !  A  necklace  worn  about  her  neck 
since  months  and  mouths  ago,  when  joy  filled 
the  heart  of  the  one  who  placed  it  there  as  she 
said  — 

"  I  thank  you  so  much  for  it !  "  We  heard 
her  say  it  —  and  she  knew  the  one  who  gave  it 
to  her  was  happy,  because  she  was.  "What 
makes  the  tears  come  so  ?  She  has  gone  — -  BUT 

SHE    IS    HERE  ! 

Put  them  carefully  away !  These  sacred 
reminders  of  past  happiness.  Let  no  rough 
hand  disturb  them.  Put  them  all  away,  wet 
with  tears,  and  when  tired  of  this  battle  of  life, 
look  at  them,  think  of  the  absent  one,  thank 
God  that  there  is  a  beautiful  Land  of  the  Leal, 


Put  Them  Away.  255 

where  those  who  truly  loved  on  earth  will  meet, 
and  live,  and  rest,  and  walk  and  work  delight 
fully  together ;  where  thought  is  the  implement 
and  minds  of  men  the  field  of  labor  for  ages 
and  ages  to  come. 

So,  welcome  Death.    Welcome  the  Dawn  ! 

For  what  is  death  but  life  ?  The  opening  of 
a  door  through  which  loved  ones  go  to  better 
and  brighter  lands  —  to  wait  for  our  coming. 
Then  we  will  put  away  these  things  we  have 
looked  at  and  wept  over,  and  put  away  that 
terrible  idea  of  a  bigoted,  ignorant  past,  that 
Death  is  dreadful,  for  it  is  not,  only  to  those 
who  are  educated  to  fealty  to  man  more  than 
to  God,  and  to  be  content  with  ideas  more 
than  principles,  without  which  there  could  be 
no  God,  no  creation,  no  progression  —  no  Eter 
nity  —  no  rest  beyond  the  final  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


HOW   SOME   POOR   PEOPLE    AEE   VERY   RICH. 

| HIS  Saturday  Night  we  are  very  tired, 
and  weary,  and  nervous,  and  lone 
some  ;  for  the  work  of  the  week  sat 
with  unusual  severity  upon  brain  and  body. 
Once,  when  younger  than  now,  we  never 
counted  the  days  nor  the  weeks.  But  now  we 
do.  Each  day  is  one  less  !  Each  night  we  are 
nearer  the  wonderful  morning  !  Each  Saturday 
iiight  we  are  so  much  nearer  the  separation,  for 
a  time,  from  that  earthly  love  and  beaccn 
guidance  which  every  true  man  has  hung  in  his 
heart  to  love,  adore,  and  confide  in. 

And  each  day  counts  for  or  against  us.     As 

256 


How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich.  257 

we  near  the  end  of  the  race  we  try  to  make  up 
for  lost  time,  but  too  often  our  strength  has 
been  spent  till  we  stumble  and  fall,  never  to 
rise  till  the  race  be  lost  to  us  and  won  by 
another. 

We  have  tried  all  the  week  to  be  good,  and 
kind,  but  it  was  harder  work  than  usual.  We 
had  so  much  work  to  do.  Little  things  have 
bothered  and  worried  us ;  at  best  we  are  only 
human.  Those  we  called  friends  have  lied  to 
us,  and  forgotten  promises.  But  we  have  not 
broken  faith  with  them.  So  we  dare  look 
them  in  the  face,  as  they  dare  not  do  by  us. 
How  good  it  is  that  we  are  not  to  answer  for 
the  sins  or  misdeeds  of  others  !  .  . 

And  yet  we  are  happy  to-night.  There  are 
others  more  weary  than  we  are,  and  with  no 
one  to  love  them  —  there  are  those  who  have 
no  golden-tinted  hope  of  love  on  earth  or  rest 
Over  There.  There  are  those  for  whom  loving 
eyes  are  not  looking  —  some  loving  heart  not 
beating  —  some  lifo  running  so  close,  even,  and 


258  How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich. 

beautiful  in  with  theirs,  from  here  to  the  very 
face  of  a  smiling  God,  whose  greatest  reward 
is  rest  and  happiness,  jtfot  so  with  us  — so 
we  are  happy. 

And  we  are  glad  to-night  to  think  that  thou 
sands  and  tens  of  thousands  often  multiplied, 
all  over  the  land,  who  have  toiled  and  been 
perplexed  all  the  week  as  we  have,  can  rest  and 
sleep  this  Saturday  Night,  if  we  must  work. 

To-night,  as  we  were  coming  up  the  steps 
leading  to  our  private  rooms,  opposite  the 
cooling  fountain  in  the  little  park  before  our 
windows,  a  policeman  handed  us  a  piece  of 
paper,  on  which  was  written,  with  a  lead 
pencil :  — 

SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

Will  you  pleaso  call  at  No.   12  —  Tenth  street,  room  seventeen, 

» 

third  floor  back,  sometime  this  evening  to  see  two  persons  who  cannot 
see  you?  If  asking  too  much,  don't  coino,  for  we  are  poor  people. 

Room  17  —  third  floor,  back.  Half-past 
nine  at  night. 


How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich.  i259 

"  Come  in  !  " 

Now,  good  friends,  and  especially  little  boys 
who  wish  to  be  useful  men,  and  little  girls  who 
wish  to  be  good  .women,  we  will  tell  you  of  our 
visit. 

We  went  to  a  tenement  house.  Twenty-one 
families  live  in  that  crowded  five-story  brick 
house.  Poor  families  they  are  all,  too. 
Somebody  said,  "  Come  in."  So  we  entered, 
to  find  an  old  man  and  an  old  woman  there. 
The  man  told  us  he  was  fifty-seven.  The 
woman  said  she  was  but  fifty-three.  And 
these  old  people  were  both  blind.  No  wonder 
they  could  not  see  us !  They  lived  in  a  room 
twenty  by  eighteen  feet.  Two  windows  look- 
*  ing  out  into  a  small  yard.  Two  windows 
under  which  two  cats  were  squalling  —  "just 
as  they  always  do  when  we  want  it  still,"  said 
the  old  lady. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  a  bed.  In 
another  corner  was  a  sort  of  lounge,  on  which 


260  How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rwk. 

a  person  could  sleep.  Two  chairs  were  it,  the 
room,  and  a  little  half-round  table  up  by  the 
wall.  And  a  few  clothes  hanging  on  the  wall. 

The  old  man  sat  by  a  window  smoking  a 
pipe.  The  old  lady  sat  by  the  other  window 
smoking  another  pipe.  Out  in  the  street  chil 
dren  were  romping,  though  the  night  was 
hot. 

"Good  evening,  friends.     This  is  room  17, 
and  you  sent  a  note  to-day  by  a  man  who  gave 
it  to  a  policeman  to  hand  to  us  when  he  saw% 
us." 

"  This  is  room  17.    Are  you  Mr.  Pomeroy  ?" 

"Yes." 

"We  hope  you  will  pardon  us,  sir  —  but 
John  said  you  would  come  if  we  wanted  you 
to,  so  I  thought  you  would  come,  and  we  sent 
for  you.  It  was  so  good  of  you  to  come. 
This  will  be  a  new  day  for  us  old  folks  to 
count  from." 


How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich.  261 

"Thanks,  good  woman.  Who  is  John  — 
and  what  can  we  do  for  you?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  sir,  only  we  wanted  to  hear 
your  voice  so  we  could  know  just  what  kind 
of  a  man  you  are.  John  is  our  boarder.  He 
is  night-watch  in  a  store  down  town,  and  goes 
on  at  nine  and  stays  till  six,  sir." 

"  And  you  old  people  are  blind  ?  " 

"Yes,  we  are  blind,  but  la!  that's  nothin' 
when  you  once  get  used  to  it,  but  it  did  hurt  a 
good  deal  at  first." 

" How  long  have  you  been  blind?  " 

"Nineteen  years,  and  Betsey  has  been  blind 
twenty-four  years,  as  she  was  long  afore  I 
married  her." 

"  Then  you  never  saw  her  ?  " 

"No;  but  I  know  just  how  she  looks,  for  a 
blind  man  can  see,  if  he  hain't  got  eyes  I " 

"  What  do  you  do  for  a  living  ?  " 

"  I  sell  matches  on  the  sidewalk  down  Broad- 


262  How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich. 

way,  and  Betsey  sells  'em  up  town,  and  we 
keep  a  boarder  besides." 

"  Does  he  pay  for  his  board  ?  " 

"What?  old  John  pay  for  his  board?  In 
deed  he  does ! " 

"How  much?" 

"  He  pays  all.  We  all  of  us  gets  the  stuff 
to  eat,  and  old  John  cooks  it  for  us  night  and 
morning.  But  Betsey  and  I  pay  the  rent. 
Old  John  cooks  and  sweeps,  and  Sunday  he 
does  the  washing,  except  what  we  do.  And  he 
reads  us  the  papers,  and  we  know  all  that  is 
going  on.  He  reads  to  us  a  little  at  night  be 
fore  supper,  and  after  —  then  he  goes  to 
watch,  and  we  talk  over  what  he  has  read." 

"  Do  you  and  Betsey  love  each  other  ?  ' 

"Yes  —  better  than  all  the  world.     It  was  a 

* 

good  day  when  old  John  brought  us  together, 
and  we  love  him  for  it." 

"  What  do  you  do  when  one  or  the  other  is 
sick?" 


How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich,  263 

"Oh,  we  get  along  —  take  care  of  each 
other.  But  we  don't  get  sick  as  other  folks 
do,  for  we  don't  eat  such  rich  food,  and  have 
better  health." 

"And  you  are  happy  here,  both  of  you?" 

"  Indeed  we  are.  Old  John's  eyes  do  for  all 
of  us." 

"  Are  you  a  Mason  ?  " 

"  I  am  —  but  I  don't  go  to  Lodge  since  I  am 
blind." 

"And  you  wanted  us  to  call  here?  What 
for?" 

"Oh,  we  wanted  you  to  come.  Old  John 
said  you  would  come,  but  I  didn't  hardly  be 
lieve  it.  I  wish  we  had  something  to  offer 
you." 

"You  have  —  a  kind  welcome.  And  noth 
ing  on  earth  is  more  God-given  or  beautiful  in 
its  memories." 

"Well,  you  are  welcome.  But  I  want  you 
to  tell  how  you  write  such  chapters  each  Satur- 


264  How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich. 

day  Night?  And  they  don't  sound  like  other 
reading.  Somebody  must  help  you  ?  " 

"  Somebody  does." 

"Who  is  it  —  a  man  or  a  woman?  It  must 
be  a  woman  —  and  yet  it  can't  be  !  " 

"  It  is  neither  —  but  a  beautiful  thought  —  a 
golden-faced  presence,  that  comes  to  us  with  a 
troop  of  followers  from  the  Land  of  the  Leal 

—  a  beautiful  spirit  who  makes  us  happy  — 
who  keeps  us  from  danger,  who  comes  when 
we  call,  and  tells  us  that  we  shall. surely  rest 
Over  There,  if  we  strive  to  do  right  here,  and 
live  to  our  line  of  light  and  belief  in  duty." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  I  know  now  !     Just  as  I  thought 

—  as  I  knew  —  for  some    one  comes  when  I 
call  —  when  we  call.     And  we  are  very  happy. 
"VVe  shall  have  eyes  Over  There  —  but  eyes  are 
nothing  if  one  don't  fcse  them." 

"  Quite  right.     And  you  are  happy  here  ?  " 
"Yes  ;  with  the  help  of  old  John,  for  which 
we    give    him   a   home.     We    have    but  few 


How  Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich.  265 

friends,  but  they  are  good  ones.  And  we 
don't  see  much  to  annoy  us  or  make  us  en 
vious.  We  don't  bother  about  the  fashions. 
And  then  we  don't  care  what  others  say  of  us 
—  we  live  for  each  other,  and  are  always 
happy." 

"But  you  are  blind!" 

"  Yes  —  but  that  is  nothing.  It  hurt  me  at 
first,  but  I  learned  to  accept  a  fact  as  such,  and 
when  one  has  learned  that  lesson  he  has  won 
a  victory." 

For  an  hour  we  sat  and  talked  thus  with  our 
blind  friends.  And  it  was  a  beautiful  lesson 
we  learned.  That  people  can  be  happy,  no 
matter  if  blind  and  poor.  That  living,  not  for 
the  world,  but  for  those  who  love  us",  brings  to 
the  heart  the  greatest  reward.  And  above  all  — 
that  one  who  learns  to  accept  a  fact  as  sucji  has 
won  a  victory. 

And   to-night,   as  we   think  how  much  we 


266  How  /Some  Poor  People  Are  Very  Rich. 

have  to  be  thankful  for  —  how  much  more 
blessed  we  are,  as  the  world  counts,  than  this 
poor  old  couple,  we  feel  light  of  heart,  rested, 
and  strong.  In  their  home  is  no  unkiiidncss 
—  no  cross  words  —  no  selfish  indifference,  but 
a  deep,  earnest  love  for  each  other  —  a  desire 
to  make  the  most  of  circumstances,  confident 
that  after  this  struggle  for  existence  will  come 
a  beautiful  rest  with  those  who  love  us  and  are 
beloved,  beyond  the  weary  Saturday  Night. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  LOVED  AND  THE  ABSENT. 

NOTHER  drop  from  the  bucket  of 
time  into  the  vapory  amethyst  — 
another  week  lost  here  to  be  pinned 
as  a  star  Up  There  to  light  the  Heaven.  All 
these  weeks  —  each  .of  these  Saturday  Nights 
—  are  but  stars,  each  one  adding  to  the  glory 
of  the  future,  as  one  by  one  they  are  lifted 
home.  His  record  of  Time,  to  last  through 
eternity.  Some  stars  are  brighter  than  others, 
as  some  weeks  went  Home  laden  with  less  sin, 
evil,  wrong,  selfishness,  and  heart-blackness 
than  others. 

To-night  we  are  all  alone  in  our  room,  but 

267 


268  Tlie  Loved  and  the  Absent. 

not  in  thought.  We  have  silent  company; 
Without,  there  is  the  hum,  the  noise,  the 
bustle  of  city  life  and  restless  humanity.  The 
air  is  keen  and  cold  as  man's  charity.  Within 
all  is  light,  comfort,  and  attraction.  The  fire 
burns  in  the  grate  —  the  black  coal  turning  to 
white  ashes  as  our  acts  are  purified  by  the  fire 
of  trouble,  sorrow,  struggling  and  agony  of 
the  heart  wrestling  for  the  prize  it  craves. 

The  carpet  on  the  floor  —  the  rug  on  which 
our  kitten  sleeps,  seem  warm  and  earnest  in 
their  colors,  like  the  life  of  an  earnest  man, 
whose  heart-work  carpets  the  floor  of  life,  so 
that  others  may  walk  with  less  noise,  and  rest 
thereon  more  comfortably. 

The  chandelier  overhead  throws  its  mellow- 
tinted  light  all  about,  just  as  kind  words  and 
honest  eyes  light  and  warm  the  heart.  The 
pictures  on  the  walls  —  the  keepsakes  every 
where  to  be  seen  seem  sociable,  as  if  each 
wanted  to  tell  us  the  history  of  the  ones  who 


The  Loved  and  the  Absent.  269 

have  thus  kindly  remembered  us.  Who  would 
not  be  happy  thus  surrounded?  All  these 
beautiful  things  won  by  honest  labor.  Better 
these  evidences  of  striving,  than  a  life  of  dis 
sipation,  with  good  to  none  I 

But  something  is  lacking  to-night.  We  all 
lack  something !  The  loved  and  the  absent. 
By  wondrous  power  we  can  go  to  them,  if  they 
cannot  come  to  us.  And  we  will  go. 

Here  is  written  evidence  —  a  little  scrap  of 
paper  on  which  was  written  "Once  upon  a 
time,"  and  we  will  go  on  a  visit  to  our  darling. 
You  cannot  go  with  us'.  The  smiles  and  the 
tears  —  the  hopes,  joys,  griefs,  sorrows,  and 
inner  life  of  those  we  will  soon  visit  are  not 
for  you  to  know. 

Home  again  ! 

We  saw  her  —  but  she  did  not  see  us  —  yet 
she  wakened  with  a  start,  and  tried  to  listen, 
to  look  light  into  the  darkness  as  we  bent  over 


270  TJie  Loved  and  the  Absent. 

, 

her  couch.  We  went  because  it  was  lonesome 
staying  alone  when  the  heart  is  away  !  We 
had  light  —  light  from  the  window,  burning  in 
Heaven,  placed  there  and  watched  by  one  who 
for  years  has  thrown  that  deep,  clear,  won 
drous  light  full  across,  and  far  along  our  path 
way  to  guide  us  safely  where  others  often  fall. 
We  went  as  thousands  who  read  this  chapter 
wish  they  could  go  to  their  loved  and  absent 
ones,  but  cannot  see  the  way  because  they  have 
not  thrown  the  shade  of  bigotry  from  across 
the  soul. 

As  thousands  of  the  good,  the  true,  the 
earnest-hearted,  the  fearless,  loving,  caring, 
working  ones  wish  they  could  go  in  a  body  to 
visit  their  loved  and  absent  ones. 

We  saw  her. 

We  talked  with  her  as  she  slept.  We  wiped 
a  tear  from  her  eyes,  and  she  wakened  with  a 
trembling  start  —  we  passed  a  hand  over  her 
face  never  so  lightly,  and  again  she  slept. 


The  Loved  and  the  Absent.  271 

Did  she  know  we  were  there  ?  Ask  her ! 
She  knew  somebody  was  there,  though  the 
darkness  was  like  a  pall  to  her  vision. 

And  she  slept.  We  held  her  hand  in  ours. 
We  held  her  to  our  heart.  We  saw  the 
trouble  go  for  the  time  from  her  spirit.  Then 
we  lifted  her  carefully  in  our  arms  and  kissed 
her  closed  eyelids,  that  when  she  awakened 
our  image  might  never  pass  from  her.  And 
she  did  not  awaken.  Thus  light  and  pure  is 
the  kiss  of  true  heart-love  given  in  person  or 
spirit.  Then  we  kissed  her  hands  a  dozen 
times,  that  the  touch  of  none  other  might  be  as 
ours  —  then  we  whispered  that  one  dearest  of 
all  words,  Darling,  in  her  ear,  and  her  face 
responded  to  the  joy  of  her  heart  thus  given 
to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  love.  Then  we  left 
kisses  on  her  lips  —  sentinels  to  guard  the 
heart  none  other  may  win,  and  noiselessly 
departed  as  we  came. 

Do  you  ever  think  of  your  loved  and  absent 


272          The  Loved  and  the  Absent. 

ones?  Do  you  hunger  for  that  heart-rest 
which  gives  joy?  Are  you  never  lonesome 
\vhen  the  loved  ones  are  absent?  The  loved 
one — the  one  best  loved  of  all?  Do  you  not 
often  wish  that  one  were  near  you  at  home,  or 
elsewhere,  to  enjoy  with  you  the  beautiful  of 
life  —  the  kiss  of  love  —  the  touch  so  filled 
with  God's  electricity?  Are  there  not  times 
when  the  hours  drag  —  when  you  so  long  to 
be  with  the  absent? 

Or  are  you  so  lost,  so  crushed,  so  wrapped 
in  selfishness  as  to  be  content  to  live  half  a  life 
without  the  bliss  which  follows  making  others 
happy  ?  No  —  no  —  none  of  our  readers  are 
thus  lost — thus  storm-tossed  on  the  clouds, 
their  present  unloving  and  their  future  but 
guess-work !  Are  you  at  times  weary,  heart 
sick,  needing  rest  to  soul,  to  brain,  to 
thought?  Would  you  visit  the  loved  and  the 
absent  —  giving  life  and  light  to  both  hearts  ? 

You  can  if  you  will !     If  you  live  aright. 


Tlie  Loved  and  the  Absent.  273 

Not  like  trembling,  cringing,  terror-stricken, 
uneducated,  bigoted  slaves  to  that  narrow- 
minded  education  you  too  often  call  religion. 
Would  you  have  a  beautiful  home?  Then, 
good  brother,  strive  to  make  it  so,  for  you  are 
the  master  if  you  so  will  it. 

There  is  something 'glorious  in  being  a  man. 
In  feeling  in  your  heart  that  you  are  true, 
earnest,  honest,  and  of  use,  if  not  to  others, 
at  least  to  yourself.  It  is  the  germ  of  power 
to  control  yourself  —  to  keep  your  heart 
warm,  your  words  from  roughness,  especially 
to  the  loved  ones  —  your  brain  cool  when  bat 
tling  with  life  —  your  mind  and  body  well  and 
whole,  with  vigorous  manhood,  gentle  touch, 
and  love's  electricity,  when  comes  the  hour  for 
home  joys,  and  communion  with  the  loved. 

It  is  glorious  to  be  able  to  sustain  yourself 
—  to  know  you  can  walk  where  danger  threat 
ens  —  can  run  where  others  grope  —  can  live 

where   others    but    stay  —  can    be   loved   and 
18 


274  The  Loved  and  the  Absent. 

pitied,  and  cared  for  as  God's  sunshine  and 
moist  dew  cares  for  the  tender  plant  —  can  be 
loved,  and  held  to  the  heart  all  the  home 
hours,  while  many  are  but  endured  by  the 
home  ones  your  dissipation  has  made  sick  at 
heart  and  desert-lifed  forever. 

Those  who  are  unloving  here,  will  be  un 
loved  over  there.  Those  who  fool  themselves 
away  here  will  not  be  counted  over  there, 
more  than  the  worm-eaten  bud  which  drops  to 
the  gutter  in  June  will  be  a  flower  in  July  ! 

Would  you  have  others  to  love  you?  Then 
be  kind,  liberal,  forgiving,  charitable,  pleasant- 
faced,  and  considerate  of  the  feelings  of 
others.  Would  you  have  others  look  to  your 
coming  with  anxious  delight,  glad  when  with 
you  —  lonely  when  away  ?  Then  be  a  man  — 
simply  yourself  just  as  God  intended.  Do 
not  be  forced  by  education,  dissipation,  or  self 
ishness,  to  grow  out  of  yourself  into  the  mor 
bidness  of  lust,  thirst,  love  for  power,  or  desire 


The  Loved  and  the  Absent.  275 

for  dissipation  till  all  the  glorious,  the  man 
like,  the  good,  the  godlike  be  frozen  out. 
All  this  is  with  yourself.  For  as  you  will  — 
as  you  elect  for  yourself  —  as  you  have  the 
honor  to  be  —  as  you  have  the  will  to  dare,  so 
in  exact  proportion  will  you  have  the  power  to 
accomplish.  And  thus  can  we  all  become  bet 
ter,  stronger,  more  loving  and  more  with  those 
loved,  but  often  absent  when  comes  the  morn 
of*  the  morrow,  or  the  resting  hours  of 
Saturday  Night. 


Date  Due 


CAT.    NO.   24    161 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACI  ITY 


A     000550017 


